


Of Love and Hunger

by pucktheplayer



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 08:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11287929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pucktheplayer/pseuds/pucktheplayer
Summary: After 8 years in prison, a hungry but determined conman struggling to survive crosses paths with the still somewhat infatuated FBI agent who put him in jail to begin with. Will they accept it as fate or will they go their separate ways? (AU where Neal served the extra four years in prison rather than become a CI for Peter.)





	1. Of Tests and Trials

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic was originally posted to Livejournal in October of 2012.

Neal had expected prison to make a mark on his soul, but he hadn’t expected it to burn a hole in his resume.  
  
By the time Neal left the testing center it was dark outside, but the orangey glow from the street lamps was enough to put the strip center in harsh relief.  A bright, florescent path cut through the muddy lighting from where he stood to the door of the Subway sandwich shop a few feet away.  It was like a golden road to heaven, but Neal forced himself to turn away, ignoring the rumble of his stomach.  If he wanted to eat, he needed to go to McD’s.  Thanks to Ronald’s generous dollar menu, his money went five times as far there as it did with Weight Loss Jared.  Besides, the last thing Neal needed was to lose weight.  
  
Neal popped his fingers, trying to relieve the cramp in his hand.  Three straight hours of pencil pushing had taken its toll on his slim fingers.  Once it might have worried him—forgers needed delicate hands to make delicate strokes—but now it was the last thing on his mind.  He was much more worried about whether or not the damn Algebra II section had fouled him up again.  When x equals the square root of a, what is the sum of a and x?  The correct answer was *not* ‘I don’t give a shit,’ though Neal was pretty sure that’s what he’d put on his tests back in high school.  
  
The test results would be mailed out in a week, and Neal sincerely hoped that he passed this time.  Adult education wasn’t cheap, and he had hardly eaten for two weeks saving up for the testing fee.  He didn’t know if he could stand another round of skimping on everything from soap to soup and using what few hours he had for sleeping as study time.  But hopefully he wouldn't have to--third time was the charm, right?  Neal would know in a week.  The results wouldn't actually be mailed to him--you needed a permanent address for that--but he could drop by and find out straight from the horse’s mouth, just like every other drifter and deadbeat trying for their GED.  
  
'Study, study, study' was the sage advice given to him by Lucy at the unemployment office when he'd asked her how to prepare for the test.  Though he spent most of their meeting time contemplating possible scenarios for why she smelled like pickles and motor oil, he really had tried to abide by her wisdom.  Though most references to the GED tended to be either part of a snide remark about laziness or the punchline to a racist joke, it honestly was *not* an easy test.  Not for someone who hadn't seen the inside of a classroom in almost two decades, anyway.  
  
See, Neal had found that the GED was basically a test over every bit of useless information that no sane person in their mid-thirties bothered to remember.  Revolutionary War battles, the Pythagorean theorem, Shakespearian sonnets, all the elements on the Periodic Table, how to diagram a complex sentence.  Oh, and his personal favorite: the fact that there are over 120,000 species of flies.  Because that was going to come in *real* useful someday.  
  
Neal never expected to regret dropping out of school, especially back when he was conning CEOs and outsmarting Feds all day long.  Now he'd have given his stolen Raphael for a chance to go back and finish up that last semester, don an ugly robe, and collect his degree.  Maybe if he'd graduated like a good boy, he wouldn’t be so damn hungry right now.  
  
Neal pulled his zipper up higher against the crisp winter air, breath coming out in a frosted puff.  He had exactly two dollars in his pocket, meaning he had to decide if he wanted to soothe the growls in his belly with a burger or catch a bus for the two mile walk back to his motel.  A true ‘either, or’ situation, poverty style.  Catching the bus would be the smart thing to do.  He had houses to clean and lawns to mow in the morning, and he needed some sleep.  On the other hand, there was nothing he hated more than trying to sleep with absolutely nothing in his stomach.  The rumbling itself could keep him awake.  
  
Screw it.  Being tired sucked, but nothing, *nothing* was as bad as the hunger.  Neal had learned that quickly enough.  His family hadn’t been rich, but he’d never gone without food, not until he was released from prison.  After serving eight years, Neal knew that life on the outside would be tough, but he hadn’t realized it would be so bad that sometimes he’d actually miss the bars on his windows.  At least they fed him in prison.  
  
Neal was determined to make it on the outside, but God, he hated the deep ache that started in his stomach and worked its way outward until it was all that he could think about.  He despised the way his head would lighten and the world would start to tip, leaving him feeling slow and defenseless.  Most of all he hated how the hunger had him stooping to new lows, things he’d never considered before, like digging through trashcans for leftovers and begging couples walking their lapdogs through Central Park for spare change.  It was like someone else had taken up residence in his body, dulling his once brilliant mind and muffling his creativity, replacing it with one word: HUNGER.  
  
Neal glanced at his cheap watch, a Hello Kitty monstrosity that a little girl in the park had given him out of her Happy meal.  It was almost nine o’clock.  The hot dog stands would be closing soon.  If he played his cards right, maybe he could eat and *still* afford a bus.  
  
“Hey, con, you fail the loser test again?”  
  
Neal flinched at the words, turning slowly to glare at the security guard who’d snuck up behind him.  This particular security guard spent his daytime hours with a fancier sounding job.  Correctional Officer, from Neal’s prison, no less.  Talk about a sick twist of fate.  
  
“Hey, boss,” Neal said as mildly as he could manage, dropping his eyes.  Miller was an ass, but he wasn’t violent unless you provoked him, and  that was the last thing Neal wanted to do since one little fight was all it would take for his parole officer to send him straight back to the pen.  
  
The CO leaned against the wall of the center, reaching into his pocket to pull out a box of Marlboros.   “Y’know, my ten year old daughter could pass that fucking test,” he said as he tapped out a cigarette.  
  
That would be because his ten year old daughter still had grade school fresh on her mind, unlike thirty five year old men on probation who had absolutely no use for knowing happens in ‘The Scarlet Letter’ or what elements make up the atmosphere.  
  
“Yeah, well, I don’t got a lot of time to study between work and job hunting, boss,” Neal said truthfully.  “I can’t even get food stamps ’til I get this thing off my ankle.” He lifted up his sweatpants to reveal the tracking anklet beneath.  “So it’s kind of tough, y’know, boss?”  
  
Miller flicked his lighter to life, cupping a hand around it as he held it up to his cigarette.  “Yeah, well, that’s your own fault, Caffrey.  You broke the law.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, boss,” Neal said, not interested in arguing with some redneck bastard over what rights released prisoners should or shouldn’t have.  “That’s why I’m trying to get another job.  Hopefully getting my GED will help flesh out my resume.”  His resume.  That was a laugh.  Neal had never even had a real job.  With no school and no experience and his only character reference doubling as his parole officer, his “resume” was a sheet of paper with his goddamn name on it.  
  
“Hm.  Well, good luck with that, boy,” the CO said, blowing out a cloud of smoke in his face.  Asshole.  
  
Neal stomach chose that moment to growl and Miller raised an eyebrow at him, a brief hint of pity coming over his face before it was swept away, replaced by the man’s usual smug look.  
  
“Hey, Caffrey, remember my open offer to ladies like you in the pen?” Miller asked casually, continuing on before Neal had a chance to confirm or deny.  “Well, that offer still stands, if you’re interested.  You know, the good ole’ 'you do something for me, I do something for you bit.'  Mutual beneficiaries, if you will.  I know it wasn’t your thing behind bars, but…” He gave a little shrug, lip curling up into a cruel smirk.  “You weren’t half starved behind bars.”  
  
Neal’s face burned as Miller’s eyes trailed his body up and down in a way that made it very clear what kind of beneficiaries he wanted to be.  
  
“No thanks, boss,” Neal said, hands clenching at his sides as his face heated up.  “I’m not that desperate.”  
  
Not yet, anyway.  
  
Neal struck the thought down, furious at himself for even letting it enter his mind.  He had worked hard--so hard--to survive behind the fence without having to sell his body to dirty COs or oversexed inmates.  He wasn’t going to cheapen that by giving himself away to the first bastard who offered him a warm meal on the outside.  
  
Of course, he had never been this hungry in prison.  
  
No.  No, no, no.  He was *not* going to let him mind go there.  He would survive, somehow.  He would.  
  
Neal glanced at his watch again.  Nine-oh-five.  He needed to go if he was going to catch the hot dog stand.  All he’d eaten today was a handful of peanuts and a little cookie nicked from a plate of samples.  
  
“Well,” Miller said, still eyeing Neal like he was candy, “when you do get that desperate, you know where to find me.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Neal said quietly, though what he really wanted to do was punch the fucker in the face.  Maybe once he was off probation he could fulfill that fantasy.  Nah.  Truth was, he didn’t have the balls to take his fist to Miller.  If there was one thing prison instilled in you, it was a hearty respect for what a CO could do if you messed with him.  A lesson like that was tough to let go, even once you were free.  
  
Summoning up what little pride he had left, Neal made a point to turn his back to the other man and walked off without another word, weaving through the parked cars toward the hotdog stand he knew was around the corner.  Neal was glad he’d managed to escape Miller’s blabbing, because the Indian guy who owned the stand was just starting to close up as he approached.  
  
“Hey, Ahsan,” Neal called out.  “Got any leftovers?”  
  
The man looked up, a friendly, open smile blooming on his face.  Smiles like that were rare in New York City.  “Oh, hello, Caffrey!  How you are?  Did test you took go well?”  
  
Neal smiled back, nodding.  “It went good, ‘San.  Thanks for asking.”  
  
Ahsan was a good guy, the sort that really gave a shit about other people.  Being basically homeless gave you a new appreciation for people who showed a little kindness now and then.  Neal’s Goodwill clothes had most people crossing the street as fast as possible to avoid having to look him in the eye.  It kind of hurt, though he probably would have done the same thing if he’d seen the Neal of today back when he’d been the Neal of eight years ago.  Oversized clothes, hair buzzed short, and duct tape holding his right sneaker together… It wasn’t exactly a tailored suit.  Ahsan was pretty much the closest thing Neal had to a friend anymore.  
  
When he was first out of prison, Neal had considered delving into his old contacts and seeing which ones were still good, but his parole officer had made it very clear that if he thought for an instant that Neal was trying to get back in the game, it would be back to prison for him.  Not that a warning had been enough to keep Neal from at least contacting the people he was closest to.  He wasn’t sure how his PO had been able to tag the excessively paranoid Mozzie as anything but the University of the Phoenix professor he was pretending to be, but just one week after his release Neal had found himself back inside for another month with a note that if they saw him consorting with “criminal elements” again—also known as pretty much everyone he considered a friend—he’d find himself in for another year, at least.  
  
It was no empty threat, either.  Neal had been released into an intensive reform program recently created by the state called Convict Rewind.  It pretty much gave his PO total control over whether or not he went back to jail, stating that any ‘act that could be considered less than desirable in a good citizen’ was a violation of his probation.  
  
The program required Neal to hold a job, so he’d been forced to accept a below minimum wage salary from a company who’d signed up for the program stating they would take on convicts as employees in exchange for only having to pay four dollars an hour, because who else would want a criminal with no work experience and no schooling working for them?  Since Convict Rewind required that you tell all possible employers that you were a felon and give them your PO’s phone number, even if they didn’t do background checks themselves, there was no way to pretend you weren’t a criminal.  
  
Neal was also required to check in daily with his PO, and in person at least twice a week, and meet with a social worker every Thursday night.  On top of that, he had ten hours of required community service a week as well.  No housing or food was provided under the claim that Convict Rewind “guaranteed work” and, therefore, you should be able to pay your own bills.  Because living in Manhattan making four bucks an hour was a *breeze*.  And it wasn’t like he could live outside the metropolitan area or move somewhere cheaper.  Neal wasn’t allowed a driver’s license and he couldn’t leave the city anyway, thanks to his tracking anklet.  Violate any of the rules, and he lost his Get Out of Jail free card.  
  
When Neal’s month in the slammer for talking to Mozzie was over, he had made a point not to contact anyone from what he thought of as his old life.  Truth was, he didn’t want any of them so see how far he’d fallen, not even Moz.  Here he was, the supposedly brilliant Neal Caffrey, and he couldn’t manage to pull off a scam that most people lived every day: Making a comfortable life for himself without committing crimes.  He’d always had money when he was conning and theiving, though Kate had never thought they were rich enough.  They never went hungry, though.  In fact they’d guzzled wine and ate sushi like the hipsters they were.  
  
Now Neal was on and off the streets, living in a room that smelled like sex and vomit and begging for food.  He knew that any of his old acquaintances would want him to get back in the game.  Hell, that had been the first thing Moz had said to him.  ‘Neal, my man, it’s time to get back in the game!’  But Neal didn’t want to play that game any more.  
  
From the very beginning, crime had been fucking up his life.  As a youth he’d thought he was so clever that he was above the average man’s journey, and he’d ditched four years of schooling just a few months from a degree because he wanted to be the bad boy.  Then had come the Vincent fiasco when, once again, his big head had fucked up his life and left him with nothing.  Then he’d gone crazy, forging and stealing right and left, taunting not just the FBI but the agent assigned to run his case.  He’d made it personal, sending Burke letters and puzzles, sure he would always be able to outsmart the man, and he’d gotten caught. Then, after serving almost his entire sentence, just a few months shy of freedom, he’d walked out the front door of the prison because he was upset that his girlfriend left him.  Neal had tried to use his clever mind to salvage his life once again, offering the same agent he had taunted and teased the opportunity to take Neal on as a CI, to use his criminal brilliance for good, but after his great escape the idea had been vetoed by the head of the department.  A severe flight risk, they’d called him.  
  
Eight years of his life, *prime* years of his life, had been lost because he’d played the game, run the scams, pulled the jobs.  It had been exciting, living large and making a name for himself as if he was a character in a fucking crime novel, but eventually it all collapsed like a house of cards.  Hell, he was finally out of prison for his stupid antics, almost *thirty-five* years old, and he was still paying for being a cocky bastard.  Neal was through with the damn game, whatever Mozzie might want.  Maybe going to college and getting some middle class job wouldn’t have been exciting, but he could have spent his birthdays under the open sky with people he cared about.  Instead he’d been locked away in the cryogenic chamber they called his cell as 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, and 33 all passed him by.  Neal Caffrey had been on this planet thirty-four years now, and he had absolutely nothing to show for it.  
  
Neal wasn’t interested in any more excuses, which was all people like Mozzie and Alex and Kate would hand him.  It wasn’t the cops, it wasn’t the Feds, it wasn’t Interpol or Adler or Ellis or Agent Peter-fucking-Burke who’d stolen his life away.  There was only one crook here, and his name was Neal George Caffrey.  Once upon a time he had been angry to find out that his much adored father was a criminal--had even claimed it was why he chose a life of crime--but he realized now that was just another way of avoiding responsibility for his own actions.  Neal had never even known the man, for God’s sake.  He'd had lost half his life already to his bad choices, and he wasn’t going to let the rest of it go the same way.  Because it would, eventually, end the same way.  Overall, it had been the best choice to let Mozzie think that Neal’s one month warning stay in prison had been extended to two years.  If he wanted to make a life for himself, a life he could keep, then he was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way, just like everybody else.  
  
Neal shifted from foot to foot in an attempt to warm up.  There was a light snow beginning to fall over head and he pulled his skullcap down over his ears.  
  
“Here go, Caffrey,” Ahsan said finally, holding up a paper bag soaked with grease.  “There three in there.  No buns left today, sorry.”  
  
“That’s okay,” Neal said, mouth watering at the smell of cooked pork.  He dug into his pocket, pulling out his handful of coins.  All his wages went to the cost of his room, so any cash he had on hand was usually change he’d begged off of New York’s fine, upstanding citizens.  Neal glanced up.  “Is a dollar okay?”  
  
Ahsan nodded, smiling kindly at Neal.  “Whatever can afford is okay.”  
  
“Thanks, man,” Neal murmured, carefully counting out a dollar in nickels and dimes.  “Here you go.”  He dropped the coins in Ahsan’s hand, taking the greasy bag from him.  
  
“You have good night, Caffrey,” Ahsan said as he walked around the booth to close up the windows.  
  
“Ooo too, ’Shan,” Neal replied around a mouthful of hot dog.  Cold, greasy, overcooked meat had never tasted so good.


	2. Of Dysons and Dates

“I don’t know about this,” Peter said with a frown, leaning up against the counter as he watched El bustle around the kitchen. “I don’t like letting strangers into our house. Remember on the news, that nanny who was running a meth lab from her client’s kitchen? Or that lady down the street who told us about the guys that put in her new carpet then came back and stole her TV when she was out?”

El rolled her eyes as she began to flip through the mail piled on the counter, tossing the junk into the trash bin. “You’ll be here the whole time, sweetie. It’s just a maid service.”

“Vice had a case once where the so-called cleaning ladies were actually a prostitution ring. This could be like that,” Peter said emphatically, crossing his arms over his chest.

El laughed, abandoning the mail to wrap her arms around her husband’s neck. “Look, hon, it’s this or you can clean yourself. I have four events in one weekend, and six this coming week! I don’t have time to mop the kitchen and, with the mess you made last night, it definitely needs some mopping!”

“I didn’t mean to spill the chili,” Peter muttered, scowling. “And I really thought Satchmo would lick it all up!”

“Mmhm,” El said, lips turning up in a cute little smile. She leaned forward and gave Peter a little peck on the lips. “Look, hon, I promise, having someone do a little cleaning once a week won’t hurt anything, and this service is a real good price.”

“Probably because they employ illegal immigrants to work for ten cents an hour,” Peter shot back, making El roll her eyes again.

“Well, then I guess you’ll have to get a Spanish phrase book, maybe brush up on your Mandarin a bit,” El said in a teasing voice and Peter couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I’m not sure if that was racist or not, but I’m going to pretend it wasn’t so I don’t have to feel like an asshole for thinking that was funny, okay?”

El laughed. “I’m sure they’re not illegal immigrants, Peter. *Or* criminals intent on using our home to cook methamphetamines. You just don’t like the idea of anybody moving your stuff around.”

“True,” Peter admitted. “Though I stand firm on my statement about the cleaning lady prostitution ring. It happened. Agent Grant was on the case.”

“Well, if it turns out that Mrs. Smiles of Mrs. Smiles’ Sweep & Service is a pimp, you feel free to arrest her, okay, hon?” El said as she reached out and grabbed her handbag off the table. “I won’t be home until late. The cleanup will probably go past midnight. Don’t wait up.”

“Okay, love you, hon,” Peter said, giving her another quick peck on the lips as she headed toward the door. “Hope both weddings go well!”

El flashed him a smile before she disappeared and Peter let out a sigh, looking around the kitchen. It *could* use some cleaning, and he really *didn’t* want to have to do it himself. It just seemed weird, having people you didn’t know come into your house and clean. He’d been joking with El but, seriously, what if they stole something? Of course, he was a federal agent with a gun and four years of training at Quantico, so he could probably bring any attempted crimes to a halt pretty fast, but it was the principle of the thing.

Peter sighed and moved over to the fridge, pulling out a box of Eggo waffles. He preferred the homemade beauties that El could whip up, but he wasn’t quite so handy with a spatula himself, so this would have to do. He dumped them into the toaster and pressed down the button, humming to himself as he pulled a plate and glass out of the cupboard, setting them down on the table.

It was a lovely Saturday morning, the sun shining bright and a crisp winter chill in the air. Peter just wished he could spend it with El. The biggest downside to their jobs was definitely the fact that El had her busiest days on the weekend while Peter followed a more traditional office schedule. It meant that they missed out on quite a few lovely Saturdays together, but Peter was glad she had a job that she loved so much. He just wished that the house didn’t have to be so empty all the time. Of course, it wouldn’t be empty today, not with “Mrs. Smiles’ Sweep & Service” coming to tear his home apart.

Of course the doorbell rang just as Peter was about to settle down with his breakfast. He let out a sigh, abandoning his food and shuffling Satchmo out into the backyard before heading into the living room.

Peter grabbed the handle and pulled, forcing what he hoped was a friendly smile onto his face and hoping silently that this lady spoke English. The door opened to reveal a tall figure wearing a light blue jumpsuit, head down and face half hidden by a cap bearing the Mrs. Smiles logo. Peter blinked as he recognized the person as male, a wave of surprise that their maid of the day was a man washing over him before he struck it down as sexist. Gosh, he was on a role with the political incorrectness today.

“Hey there,” Peter said, extending his hand in greeting. “I guess you’re the cleaning guy?”

The man tilted his head up for the first time, flashing Peter an enormous smile. A very familiar enormous smile. A very, very familiar enormous smile. The last time Peter had seen that big grin, it had been behind prison walls.

Okay, either he was having a really weird dream or Neal Caffrey was his new maid.

Peter surreptitiously pinched his arm, wincing a little at the sting. Nope, not a dream. Definitely not a dream. It did appear that Neal Caffrey was, indeed, his new maid.

Apparently it wasn’t going to be such a lonely Saturday after all.

* * *

“Hey there,” a deep voice said, sounding cheerful if somewhat stressed. “I guess you’re the cleaning guy?”

Neal was expecting the nerves. Greggie had told him this was a new customer, never used a maid service before, and Neal knew from experience that first timers were sometimes weirded out by having a stranger in their homes. It didn’t worry him. He might be a loser these days, but he could still charm a person with the best of ‘em.

Neal looked up, flashing his best smile as he readied himself to launch into his Mrs. Smiles spiel, then froze as he took in the hulking figure in the doorway, smile slowly dripping off his face. No. No way. This wasn’t possible. He had to be dreaming. Yeah, that was it. This was a nightmare. All he needed was one little pinch and he’s wake up on a park bench somewhere, feeling refreshed.

Neal bit the inside of his cheek, wincing at the sudden pain. Shit. It wasn’t a dream. He really was standing on the front porch of the federal agent who’d chased him for three years, testified against him in open court, and put him in jail twice. And Special Agent Peter Burke was nothing if not a very tall, very wide, very strong federal agent. In fact, Neal was pretty sure Burke could snap his wrist with one hand.

God, it sure *sounded* like a nightmare.

Neal floundered for what to say. Should he pretend this wasn’t happening, go off into his spiel like a good little maid? Should he say something cute, to try and feel out whether or not Burke wanted to break him in half? Should he turn on his heel and run? Neal didn’t have a clue. This was *not* covered in the company handbook.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

Neal flinched at the anger in the other man’s voice, hunkering his shoulders and dropping his gaze in an attempt to avoid the agent’s death glare. He was really starting to think that running was the best choice. Except if he ran, he’d get fired. And if he got fired, he’d go back to jail. And he couldn’t go back to jail, not after he’d worked so hard to stay out.

“I… I’m here to clean your house, sir,” Neal said in a small voice, stressing the word ‘sir’ to emphasize that he knew damn well who was in charge here. “B-because you called us to. I’m with Mrs. Smiles’ Sweep & Service.”

Apparently that wasn’t what Burke wanted to hear, because the next thing Neal knew he was on his tippy toes an inch from Burke, the bigger man’s hands buried in the front of his jumpsuit. He let out a squeak when Burke sort of shook him.

“Are you trying to run a con here, Caffrey? Because if so, it’s pretty pitiful. You think I don’t remember what you look like? It may have been eight years since you were really on my radar, but trust me when I say that I will *never* forget your pretty mug.”

Neal winced at the way the man said ‘pretty.’ They’d called him that in prison. ‘Hey, pretty, do this. Hey, pretty, sit here.’ He’d always hated it.

“No, Mr. Burke,” he said, voice shaking slightly. “I swear, I’m not doing anything. Well, I mean, I am doing something. I’m working. For Mrs. Smiles. That’s why I’m here, I swear it. I’m out on probation, and this is my job.”

“It’s ‘Agent Burke’ to you,” the man responded, scowling at him, and Neal ducked his head in acknowledgement. “Are you really telling me that, out of the millions of people in this city, you just happened to be the one they picked to come clean *my* house.”

“Yes,” Neal said desperately, knowing how ridiculous it sounded even as he said it. “I know that seems crazy, but it’s the truth. Look, I can give you the number of my manager *and* my parole officer, okay? My manager will tell you he sent me here and my PO will tell you I work for Mrs. Smiles’. Please, Agent Burke, I swear to God, I don’t want any trouble.” His voice cracked slightly. “I go out of my way to avoid trouble these days.”

Burke stared down at him for a long moment, brow furrowing a little. Neal stared up at him, watching as a flurry of emotions he couldn’t quite read flashed across the man’s face. Finally he let go, setting Neal back down with surprising gentleness. The second Burke’s hands were off of him, Neal stumbled back several steps, stomach churning with fear.

“Okay,” Burke said gruffly, opening the screen door and gesturing for Neal to enter. “Get inside. I want both those numbers.”

Neal swallowed hard, nodding over and over again. “Okay,” he said, stooping down to get his bucket of cleaning supplies and the company’s vacuum.

“Leave that stuff out here.”

Neal stiffened, the sick feeling in his gut increasing. He slowly craned his neck upward until he could look Burke in the eyes. “Please… If I leave it out here and it gets stolen, they’ll take it out of my pay. The vacuum’s a Dyson. It costs, like, four hundred dollars. So when I say they’ll take it out of my pay, what I really mean is that I won’t get paid for a month.” He knew he probably sounded desperate, but he really didn’t care. He *was* desperate. God, how could everything have gone wrong so quickly?

Burke frowned and studied his face, looking like he wasn’t quite sure what to think. Neal held his breath. “All right,” the man said finally. “Bring them in, but leave them by the door.”

“Yes, boss,” Neal said, the adrenaline rushing through him making him fall back into prison speak. Being around Burke reminded him of dealing with the COs back in the cellblock. You knew there were rules, but you also knew that no one would care if the other guy didn’t follow them. He was the boss, after all. “I mean, sir. Yes, sir.”

Neal picked up his things as quickly as he could, dragging the vacuum behind him, and stepped through the doorway into Burke’s house. It was as cute on the inside as it was on the out, lots of soft colors and decorative flowers. Neal took a wild guess that Burke’s wife had decorated it. Burke just didn’t seem the little bonsai tree type.

“Come on,” the agent said, gesturing for Neal to follow him into the next room. The kitchen, Neal realized as he stepped through the door. He grimaced slightly at a splatter of reddish crust covering one of the bottom cabinets. He could see why they’d called a maid service.

Neal stood awkwardly by the door, mentally preparing himself to make a run for it if Burke suddenly got violent. Better a lost job than a broken bone. He had no insurance, so there was no way he could afford a hospital visit. Any injuries had to be mended at home with bandaids, duct tape, and saran wrap.

Burke sat down at the table in the center of the room, pushing aside an untouched plate of microwavable waffles. Apparently Neal had interrupted his breakfast. Neal’s stomach growled as he eyed the Eggos. He started swallowing rapidly in an attempt to make it shut up, a trick he had learned from the old veteran with the shopping cart full of soda cans that lived in an alley on Kennedy.

“Well, are you gonna sit?” Burke asked after a moment, gesturing to the chair across the table from him.

Guessing he didn’t really have much of a choice—he was in the man’s house for God’s sake—Neal moved across the room and slowly lowered himself into the seat. Now he could smell the waffles as well as see them, fantastic. He coughed loudly to cover up another stomach rumble.

Burke already had his cellphone in his hand. “Well? Gonna give me those numbers, Caffrey, or is this a con after all?”

Neal forced himself to take his eyes off the food, returning his gaze to Burke’s face. “No, no sir. Not a con, I swear. You want my PO first or my boss?”

“Probation officer,” the man replied promptly, raising an eyebrow almost like he was daring Neal to lie. Not that Neal had anything to lie about.

Neal nodded. “It’s 213-555-2387, extension 134. Officer Joe Mitchell.”

“213…”

“555… 2387. Extension 134.”

Burke finished punching in the numbers then lifted the cell to his ear, his sharp brown eyes not leaving Neal’s face once.

“Hello, is this Officer Mitchell? Hey there, this is Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI. I have a kid over here at my house, name’s Neal Caffrey. I know him back from his life of crime. He says that he works for a Mrs. Smiles’ Sweep & Service, and that’s why he’s here. I just wanted to check out his story, make sure everything’s on the up and up.”

Burke fell silent, nodding every once and awhile, and Neal shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Okay, well, thank you. I appreciate your time. Yeah, you have a good one, too.”

“Well?” Neal said as Burke dropped his phone to the table.

“You check out,” Burke said, a surprised edge to his voice. “I have to admit, I… Didn’t expect that.”

Neal dropped his eyes. “Look, I know you’re gonna call my boss, too, but…” He swallowed nervously. “Do you think you could just say that you wanted to, I don’t know, check to see how long I’m supposed to stay?” He looked back up. “They… They know I’m on probation, but if it becomes a big deal, people asking questions about it, I might lose my job. And I… I really need this job, you know?” He hesitated. “I mean, like, I *really* need this job. This job is all I have.”

* * *

Peter stared at Caffrey as the younger man peered up at him through thick lashes. His heart was beating just a little too fast, had been since he first caught sight of Caffrey on his doorstep. A rush of adrenaline had swept him, like he’d used to get in the old days, when he’d been right on Caffrey’s heels. It was, well, kind of exciting.

They know I’m on probation, but if it becomes a big deal, people asking questions about it, I might lose my job. And I… I really need this job, you know?”

God, his voice sounded so small, so young. Except he wasn’t young, was he? Caffrey would be, what, thirty-four now? Not far from over the hill. But he still seemed like a kid to Peter, the same kid he’d locked up almost ten years ago.

“I mean, like, I *really* need this job,” Caffrey continued, his big blue eyes searching, adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “This job is all I have.” The kid’s voice shook on the last few words. God, he looked like a scared animal, hunched over in that chair and dressed in an ugly, loose fitting jumpsuit. He was practically shaking in his boots.

To be honest, this man was hardly recognizable as Neal Caffrey. If his face had been any plainer, any less beautiful, Peter might not have even known who he was. But that smile of his was one in a million, and this was definitely Neal Caffrey. But, God, he was thin. He looked like a homeless person, his cheekbones too prominent and his eyes sunken. Most of his body was covered by the jumpsuit, but Peter could see his wrists, the bones of his joints sticking out sharply. His skin was too pale, an unhealthy shade, and even his once bright blue eyes seemed strangely dull.

Caffrey reached up and tugged off his Mrs. Smiles cap, balling it nervously between his hands, and Peter had his next surprise. The man’s hair was mostly gone, buzzed down to pretty much nothing. Peter didn’t know why that surprised him so much, more so than even the hollowed cheeks, but he was speaking before he’d really finished processing it.

“What happened to your hair?”

The other man looked at him in surprise, and Peter didn’t blame him. Why would some federal agent give a shit about your haircut? Why *did* Peter give a shit about Caffrey’s haircut? He didn’t give a shit about Caffrey, right? Yeah, sure he didn’t. That’s why he had a stack of birthday cards from him stuffed in the drawer of his desk upstairs.

Caffrey ran a hand over the short fuzz. “My room doesn’t have a shower,” he said quietly. “Gotta bathe in the sink. This is easier to take care of.”

Peter nodded absently, though inside his mind was working overtime trying to mesh the Caffrey he’d known with this man who cleaned other people’s toilets and bathed in a sink.

“I guess you’ve been having some rough times since you got out of prison?” Peter knew he was stating the obvious, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to know what had happened, though he knew his personal interest was inappropriate, had always been inappropriate. Caffrey was just one of hundreds of criminals he’d put behind bars, and it wasn’t his case any more. Hadn’t been for years. But still, Peter had kept that stack of cards, along with a picture of the kid, stashed away upstairs. He’d actually been wondering just a few days ago why he and El hadn’t received a Christmas card from Caffrey this year. Now he had his answer. Someone this thin couldn’t waste precious money on niceties.

“Yeah,” Caffrey said quietly, straightening out his hat, and then wrinkling it up again over and over in a nervous sort of way. “I’m trying to get my GED, but I don’t have much time to study.”

Peter’s brow rose. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been tested, Caffrey, but I’m fairly certain you’re a genius, or something close enough to it that us common folk can’t tell the difference. I wouldn’t think a high school equivalency degree would be a hard one for you.”

Caffrey's eyes rolled up, head still bowed, gazing at him through those thick eyelashes again. There was a bitter sort of amusement on his face. “Do you remember about the War of 1812, Agent Burke? How about the first ten digits of pi? Can you quote the Emancipation Proclamation? Do you know the atomic number of Phosphorus?” He shook his head. “I’m hyper-intelligent, yeah. A problem solver, an analyst, a creative mind. Give me some problems that require quantitative reasoning and fluid processing and I’ll blow your socks off. But you don’t need to be smart to pass the GED, Agent Burke. You just need to have time to memorize a slew of facts that you’ll never use again.” He sounded tired.

“I guess I see your point,” Peter admitted.

“It’s hard to find a real job, being on probation and having zero experience or schooling.” Caffrey laughed, but it sounded bitter. “This is the only sort of job you can get, ones with companies that signed up with the Convict Rewind program so they only have to pay you four bucks an hour to slave for them.”

Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief. “That’s way below minimum wage.”

Caffrey shrugged, finally lifting his chin and truly looking Peter in the face. “Like I said, it’s part of the program. If you can find a real job then you’re free do that, but you have to work to stay out of jail. They pay you crap and treat you like shit, but you have to take it because if you get fired and don’t find another job within two weeks, you go back to the big house.” He gave Peter a small smile. “But I’m hoping that once I get my GED that maybe I can get a third job, someplace that actually pays minimum wage.”

“A third job?” Peter questioned, raising his eyebrows.

Caffrey nodded. “Yeah, I do this for six hours, then I go work at Juarez Landscaping for another six. Then I have to serve ten hours community service a week, but I usually do that all at once on Sunday, picking up trash and sorting through the bins to find recyclables in the park. It’s my day off.” He licked his lips, glancing around the room nervously. “Look, Agent Burke, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but if I’m not back in two hours, my boss is going to think I’m slacking on the job and I’ll probably get fired. Could… Could I go ahead and clean, please?”

Peter nodded, feeling a little guilty that he hadn’t thought about that. “Yeah… yeah, I’m sorry, Caffrey. I didn’t think…” He stood, picking up his plate of now cold waffles. “Lemme toss these, and I’ll get out of your way, okay?”

Peter walked around him, dumping the contents of his plate into the trash bin. He could eat once the kid was gone.

“I’ll just go hang out in my study upstairs, okay?” he said, moving toward the door.

“Okay. I’ll let you know when I’m done, sir.” Caffrey said, still being disturbingly polite. But then Peter guessed that you were supposed to be polite to the people employing you. It just didn’t seem a Caffrey-like thing to do.

Peter nodded as he walked out of the kitchen and started up the stairs, mind whirring. This was crazy. What were the chances of it? El decides out of nowhere that she wants to call a maid service, and just happens to call the one that Neal Caffrey, fresh out of prison, is working for? And they just happen to choose him, out of all their employees, to send to Peter’s house? Talk about coincidence. Hell, some people might call it fate.

Peter paused at the thought, frowning a little. Fate. Hm. Peter wasn’t much for astrology or any of that, but he *was* a believer in fate. He firmly believed that he and Elizabeth had been meant for one another, destined to meet. This whole thing with Caffrey… There were only three ways something this “coincidental” could be explained. One, Caffrey *was* running a con on him and Peter had fallen for it, hard. Two, it was pure random chance. Or three, someone or something out there had meant for Peter to meet this man again after all these years.

Neal Caffrey would go pretty far for a con, but Peter had a hard time imagining the egotistical conman stooping to starving himself and shaving his head to pull the wool over the eyes of an agent he hadn’t seen in four years. But if this really was one enormous ass coincidence, he should really start buying lotto tickets. It was about as likely as Martians appearing in his kitchen to steal him away. Which just left…

Fuck it. Fate or not, Peter was going to talk to the kid again. He turned on his heel and made his way back down the stairs and across the living room, stepping into the kitchen just in time to see Caffrey kneeling next to the trash bin, shoving a piece of the waffle Peter had thrown out into his mouth.

The younger man’s eyes widened as he saw Peter in the doorway, his cheeks instantly turning as deep shade of red, and he quickly dropped the remains of the waffle back into the bin.

“S-sorry,” he said, voice sounding a little panicked. “I was just… uh… yeah. I’m sorry. I’ll get to work now, Agent Burke.” He grabbed a bottle of Windex off the floor and pointedly began spraying the cabinet Peter had doused with chili the day before.

Peter swallowed hard to try an alleviate the lump growing in his throat as he watched the younger man on all fours, head lowered so Peter couldn’t see his face as he tried to pretend that he hadn’t been caught eating out of the trash a moment before. It sounded wrong, even in his head. Neal Caffrey had been eating out of his *trash.*

Peter’s eyes moved from Caffrey to their refrigerator, zooming in on the caricature his wife had stuck on the fridge with little green magnets. It was a cartoon version of Peter and El cuddled in each others arms, Peter’s forehead comically large and El’s face adorably round. Caffrey had sent it to them two years ago from prison. An anniversary gift, the card had said. At the time all Peter had wondered was how the hell Caffrey had known what his wife looked like. Now that he saw the man again, he wondered just how lonely he’d been, making anniversary gifts for the agent who’d put him in jail. Didn’t Caffrey have anybody who cared about *him* to send drawings to? Someone who actually knew him beyond a courtroom setting? Peter’s eyes dropped back down to the haggard looking young man kneeling on the floor, scrubbing at their cabinets.

It had to be fate.

“Hey Caffrey,” he said as casually as he could, pretending not to notice when the man flinched slightly. “My wife’s got two weddings today, and she probably won’t be home before midnight or so. What do you say you drop back by after work and we go get a bite to eat?”

Caffrey sort of froze, his whole body tensing up. “You… want to go out to eat with me?” he asked, voice disbelieving, craning his neck so he could look at Peter. He frowned suspiciously then sat up, wiping his hands on a rag. “I swear, Agent Burke, I’m not running any con,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to keep tabs on me.”

“Call me Peter,” Peter replied. “And I know you’re not. But, hey, I owe you a dinner. All those anniversary cards you sent me over the years? Practically saved my marriage. I never remember the date.”

Caffrey laughed at that, the first real laugh Peter had heard from him, and then he flashed his million watt smile. “Yeah, women can be kind of touchy about those things.” He paused. “I don’t get off my second job until eight o’clock, though.”

Peter shrugged, though he was silently wondering how someone could work twelve straight hours every day without collapsing. Those were the kinds of hours he worked when they were hot on someone’s trail, and it always wore him down. “So we’ll make it a late one. I know a great sports grill that’s open ’til midnight. Best burgers in Brooklyn. We can catch up.”

Caffrey stared up at him, a wary but interested look on his face. “Okay. Yeah, that… That sounds good. Catching up. I’ll be around about eight-thirty.”

A smile spread across Peter’s face. “It’s a date.”


	3. Of Menus and Mishaps

Neal stared at the strange man reflected in the window of a car parked by the street.  It was his own reflection, but it looked like someone else.  It definitely wasn’t the man he expected to see, and he took a moment to consider painting it, the man with someone else’s reflection, before reminding himself that paint was a luxury he would probably never be able to afford again.  The reflection did bear *some* similarities to Neal Caffrey.  A cut jawline.  High cheekbones.  Big eyes in a shocking blue shade.  But it was a passing resemblance.  The reflection had a jawline, all right, but it was as sharp as a knife, and its cheeks were so hollow that it looked as if someone had used paint to shadow beneath them.  Its big eyes were *too* big for this skinny face, sort of like a Japanese cartoon, and its skin was so pale that it looked as though it was wearing lipstick.  It was Neal Caffrey repainted in a stark Impressionist style.  
  
Neal turned away from the glass and straightened his jacket, not that straightening the bulky brown monstrosity would make it look any better, but it was warm and that’s what counted.  Neal was wearing his best shirt, had actually left work a half an hour early so that he could dash back to his room and get it.  It was a light pink shade and buttoned down the front.  Neal liked it because it gave his skin a little of its old color back.  He’d even traded in his usual sweatpants for a pair of baggy jeans.  He’d had to use twine in place of a belt, but leaving the shirt untucked hid that.  
  
Not that it really mattered what he looked like.  Peter had already seen him in his Mrs. Smiles’ frocks, and in prison orange, too.  Jumpsuits of every shape and color.   You couldn’t get much worse than that.  
  
Peter.  It felt strange to call him that, even in his head.  Oh, he’d thought of him as ‘Peter’ now and then throughout the years, even called him that to his face, wrote it in his brass letters.  But that was the old Neal Caffrey, the cocky criminal with nothing to lose.  He wasn’t so proud anymore.  He was a more careful Neal now, doing his best to be polite and respectful of others.  He’d found that was the best way to stay off people’s radars, and staying off their radars was the best way to stay off their hit lists.  
  
Yeah, the old proud Neal was definitely gone.  Neal wasn’t proud at all anymore, not even proud enough to assume that Peter’s intentions for tonight were necessarily good.  Once upon a time he'd believed that anyone would take time out of their day for the chance to trade stories with the intelligent, talented Neal Caffrey.  Now he wondered what, exactly, Peter wanted from him that was worth wasting his evening hanging out with a poor ex-con who cleaned houses for a living.  
  
Sex was the first thing that came to mind, which was embarrassing in itself.  Your everyday guy definitely wouldn’t go there.  But Neal had spent eight years in prison surrounded by men who had little use for anything but packs of cigarettes, extra toilet paper, and cheap ass.  He’d never lowered himself to trading his body for favors or protection, but he had been traded without his permission once or twice.  Saying ‘no’ to a CO was like begging to be put in the hole for a month, so Neal had suffered through it, and he’d been a lot better off than some of the other slim white boys.  His talent with a pack of cards had won him a lot of friends, and his smarts had been appreciated.  But prison was a rough scene and eight years was a long time.  Bigger, tougher men than Neal Caffrey had found themselves in situations where their bodies weren’t their own anymore.  
  
Peter didn’t seem like the type, though, which made it that much more embarrassing that sex was the first thing that came to Neal’s mind when he considered what the agent could want from him.  The man had never been anything but one hundred percent pureblood upstanding citizen, and Neal had never heard even a hint of dirt on him.  He couldn’t totally set the possibility aside though, especially with Peter’s comment about his wife being out and their little get together being ‘a date.’  
  
Neal wasn’t sure, exactly, what he would do if Peter wanted that from him.  The man had his parole officer’s number and the authority to send Neal back to jail if he didn’t get what he wanted, but Neal had a set of morals that he had stuck to pretty much through hell and high water.  Now would be a heck of a time to give that up.  It was weird, though.  He’d always felt a strange connection to Peter.  The man had been able to get into Neal’s head from the very start, and that’s how he’d eventually caught him.  But that was no reason to give into pressure, right?  That wasn’t the sort of man Neal was.  Was it?  
  
God, this was ridiculous.  He was wasting his time worrying over this.  Peter wasn’t exactly his friend, but from what he knew of the man, putting him in the same column as the dirty officers who worked at the prison was like putting Jesus Christ in the same column with the Klu Klux Klan.  Peter said that he wanted to catch up, and that was probably exactly what he wanted to do.  Why he would care to catch up with a criminal he’d caught years ago was beyond Neal, but he didn’t need to know the why as long as the what didn’t involve removing his clothes or returning to prison.  
  
Neal took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching as it frosted in the air.  Enough standing around looking at himself.  It was time to go in.  He shoved his hands in his pockets, the holes in his gloves not exactly keeping his fingers toasty, and made his way up the stairs of the Burke’s adorable little house.  Talk about a picket fence kind of life.  
  
He steeled himself as he slowly lifted a hand to knock on the door.  Before he had the chance, however, it swung open, making him stumble back in surprise.  
  
“Hey, Neal, there you are!” Peter said, grinning widely at him like he was an old friend.  All the anger and suspicion of earlier seemed to have melted away.  The bigger man was already wearing a jacket over his sweater, and was apparently ready to go because he stepped out of the house and shut the door behind him.  
  
“I’m starving, how about you?” Peter asked as he started carefully down his snow-dusted front steps, waving for Neal to follow him.  “C’mon, let’s get in the car before I freeze to death.”  
  
It turned out that the Ford Taurus Neal had been staring into was actually Peter’s car.  It was nice inside, obviously top of the line, and Neal carefully folded his hands in his lap, almost afraid to touch the clean interior with his somewhat grimy gloves.  
  
“So, where are we going?” Neal asked quietly as Peter started the car, praying silently that it was someplace cheap.  He only had seven dollars, and he’d borrowed that from a co-worker with the promise to pay him back ten next week.  If Neal got up at three-thirty instead of five in the mornings then he could walk to work next week and skip bus fares.  That would be enough to pay back his co-worker.  Hopefully.  
  
“Sports grill a few blocks away.  Joey Downer’s, it’s called.”  
  
Neal ‘hm’d’ in acknowledgment, staring out the window out onto the darkened streets.  
  
“How was work?” Peter questioned after a moment of silence, his voice a little overly casual.  Apparently Neal wasn’t the only one nervous about this little get together.  
  
Neal glanced over at the man, giving him a strained smile.  “Okay.  Just work.  Cleaned some floors.  Trimmed some hedges.  You know how it goes.”  Actually, he’d spent six hours mostly on his hands and knees cleaning two houses and three floors of an office building, then spent five hours using heavy shears to hack at some hugely overgrown shrubs in a small park on the west side.   He was bone tired, but there was no point in complaining.  Nobody liked a whiner, and Neal realized suddenly that he really wanted Peter to like him.  God knew why, but he did.  He guessed that just went to show how badly he wanted a friend if he had a mind to try and impress the man who’d arrested him, twice for that matter.  
  
“Well, it’s good that you’re working hard.  My father always said that hard work makes the man.”  
  
“I’m trying,” Neal said quietly.  “I don’t know how much of a man it makes me, but I get by.”  
  
Peter glanced over at that, a doubtful sort of look on his face.  Neal supposed he didn’t blame the guy.  It was probably hard to believe that someone who’d wasted their entire youth pulling scams and running from the law was actually trying to make an honest living now.  
  
“Not getting by very well from what I can see,” Peter said quietly, and Neal shrugged.  
  
“Blame it on the economy.”  Neal gave a short laugh.  “Or the fact that I’m a felon.  Believe it or not, that’s not what people are really looking for in a new hire.”  
  
Peter chuckled.  “I can imagine.  But you’re so smart, Neal.  I mean, I don’t like to brag on people’s crimes since I don’t think crime is something to brag about, but I meant what I said earlier.  You’re a goddamn genius, Caffrey.”  
  
Neal just stared out the window at the snowy sidewalks.  “Obviously not the kind of genius that gets you anywhere in life.”  The car slowed as they approached a squat little building with a neon football flashing on its awning.  
  
“Maybe you just haven’t found your place in life yet,” Peter said as he pulled the Taurus up to a curb, shifting it into park.  “Keep trying, and I bet you will.”  
  
*  *  *  
  
Peter hadn’t seen someone study something as hard as Neal was studying the menu since his exams at Quantico.  You’d have thought he was memorizing the thing, the way his eyes would dance across it then move back to the top and start again.  Every once and awhile he would start chewing on his lip in a nervous sort of way, then stop abruptly and shoot Peter an embarrassed looking glance.  Nervous habit, maybe?  He was sure prison could give a man a few of those.  
  
It was almost surreal, this scene.  Neal with his shaved head and clothes that were… Well, *definitely* not up to what Peter thought of as the younger man’s ‘normal’ style.  But then, this was a man who’d spent a quarter of his life dressed in prison garb.  Compared to orange scrubs, his pink button down shirt and worn out jeans were the epitome of nice.  Though, to be blunt about it, Peter was pretty sure that the shoes back in prison were better than the ones Neal was wearing.  One of them had duct tape on it, for God’s sake.  
  
“Find anything you like?” Peter questioned as he took a sip of his beer.  Neal had looked at him like he was nuts when Peter had asked if the other man wanted one too.  At first Peter had assumed it was because Neal Caffrey was too uppity for beer—he remembered the man as being quite the wine connoisseur—but when all he’d ordered was water, Peter had started to wonder if maybe he was an alcoholic who’d gone sober and thought Peter knew.  He couldn’t figure out what else would make the man look at Peter like he’d sprouted another head when asked if he wanted a Bud Light.  
  
“Uh…” Neal’s eyes danced across the menu again, tongue flicking out to lick nervously at his lips.  
  
Peter found it rather adorable—and more than a little attractive—which was surprising considering that he didn’t tend to notice things like that about other men.  But then Neal Caffrey had always had a strange sort of power over him.  He remembered the days when he’d been chasing the man—God, had it really been eight years?—and how he’d spill everything he learned about Neal to El like the man was his secret high school crush.  She thought it was cute, and they'd actually spent a few nights role playing ‘Peter and Neal.’  No one could say that his wife wasn’t open minded.  It certainly made for some hilarious nights.  Sexy, too.  Peter hid a smile at the memory, having a feeling that Neal would probably find it less amusing than Peter did.  Neal had never shown any affinity for men at all, as far as Peter could tell, and he would probably be more than a little embarrassed to find out that Peter and his wife played sex games using his name.  
  
“You know, I think I’ll just get an appetizer.  The potato slices sound good.  I haven’t had sour cream in awhile.”  Neal let the menu drop to the table with a thump then reached out and grabbed his glass, draining the last of the water from it.  It was his third glass in the half an hour they’d been there.  
  
Peter’s good humor faded away as he watched the way Neal’s elbows seemed to jut from his too thin arms.  Now that he was no longer dressed in coveralls, Peter could see that the once muscular body was pretty much gone, leaving a scarecrow behind.  It was obvious that Neal was not eating well, in fact, if he didn’t know better, Peter would say he was on the edge of starving.  
  
This was the richest country in the fucking world.  Americans threw away twice as much food as they ate.  The idea that *anyone* living in this nation could go hungry made Peter feel sick to his stomach.  And the idea that *Neal* was going hungry… Well, that just made him want to shake down some asshole politicians, give the cash to charity, and let them see what it felt like to be impoverished in a world full of fat cats.  
  
“Don’t you think you could use something a little more substantial than an appetizer?” Peter questioned, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Neal picked up his empty water glass, twirling it around in his hands, a surprisingly graceful movement.  Apparently he hadn’t lost all of his smooth groove.  “Nah, I’m good.  I drank a lot of water.  I’m not that hungry.”  His stomach chose that moment to betray him by growling loudly, and Neal’s face turned a startling red color.  
  
“Not hungry, huh?” Peter said dryly.  “That sounds like hungry to me.”  
  
Neal set the glass down on the table a little harder than necessary, annoyance blooming across his sharp features.  “Okay, fine, I admit it.  I don’t have enough money for this place, especially if I have to leave a tip,” he snapped.  “I only have seven bucks and, honestly, the idea that I’m going to have to spend it all on one thing when I could splurge at a dollar menu makes me feel kind of sick.  Is that what you wanted to hear?”  His eyes flashed.  “I’m poor, Peter, okay?  A fucking burger here costs nine dollars and I don’t have that kind of cash.  Hell, I had to borrow what I have ‘cause when you asked me to dinner earlier?  I had seventy-seven cents and plans to pick up a day old sandwich at a convenience store.  So appetizer it is, ‘cause it’s all I can afford.”  He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Peter like he was daring him to say something.  
  
Peter felt his mouth drop open, a sick feeling rising in his stomach.  God, no wonder the man had looked at Peter like he was crazy for asking if he wanted a beer.  He thought he’d be paying for it, and obviously Neal couldn’t afford luxuries like alcohol these days.  “Neal,” he said, voice coming out a little pained, “this is my treat, okay, buddy?  When I invited you to dinner?  I never meant for you to pay.  You can order whatever you want.  I’ve got it.”  
  
Neal stared at Peter for a long moment, big blue eyes unreadable, before he spoke, voice strained.  “You don’t have to—“  
  
“I want to,” Peter interrupted, not interested in listening to arguments from someone who looked like a slight breeze could blow them away.  “It’s my treat.  It always was.  I’m sorry that I didn’t make that clearer.”  
  
Neal’s eyes stayed locked on him so long that Peter was starting to wonder if they were having a stare down and Peter didn’t know it, then the other man let out a very unhappy sounding laugh, dropping his head and shaking it tiredly.  
  
“Shit.  God, I wish I had known that.  Now I owe Billy three bucks for nothing.”  
  
Peter’s brow furrowed slightly.  “What?”  
  
Neal looked up, a manic sort of smile spreading across his face even as he made a choked sound, like he was holding back a sob.  “Oh, I borrowed the seven bucks from a co-worker with a promise I’d give him ten back next week.  Earn a little interest on his investment.  The bank of Billy, I guess.”  He waved the words away.  “But whatever.  I’ll figure it out.”  
  
Peter tried his best to school his features to keep from showing Neal how sad this was making him.  He couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to be worried over three dollars.  To him, it was nothing.  Literally, nothing.  If he accidentally threw away three bucks and he’d have to go to the curb and bring the trash back to get it back… He’d just leave it there.  Three bucks wasn’t worth sorting through the trash to a guy like Peter.  What would it be like to be so bad off that three dollars made you want to cry?  
  
“Hey, it’s no problem,” Peter said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet.  He grabbed a twenty and tossed it onto the table in front of Neal.  “Here, take that.”  
  
Neal eyed the thing like it was a goddamn Michelangelo, but he didn’t reach for it.  “You don’t have to do that,” he said casually, though the look on his face made it clear that doing so was painful.  “I get by.”  
  
“It’s my fault there was a mix up,” Peter replied.  “Go ahead and take it.”  
  
The younger man glanced hesitantly up at Peter and, for a second, he thought pride was actually going to win out and Neal was going to refuse the money, but an instant later the man reached out and snatched it up, stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket.  Apparently pride wasn’t enough to keep someone on the edge of starvation from accepting a little charity.  
  
“How come you aren’t on food stamps?” Peter questioned.  
  
“How do you know I’m not on food stamps?” Neal replied slowly, face suddenly suspicious.  “You talk to my PO again?”  His voice made it clear that he did not approve.  
  
Peter held up his hands.  “No, no, nothing like that. I can tell you’re not on food stamps because you look like a skeleton, Caffrey.  If you were on food stamps, you’d have at least a little flesh on your bones.”  
  
Neal relaxed noticeably.  Apparently the idea of Peter talking to his parole officer really made him tense.  
  
“Yeah, the Convict Rewind program doesn’t allow you to get government assistance since it provides you with a job.”  
  
“A job that doesn’t even pay minimum wage,” Peter said flatly.  
  
Neal shrugged.  “Yeah, my social worker jokes that it was created by Tea Partiers.  No offense to the more extreme wing of the Grand Old Party, of course.  You get no food stamps, no unemployment checks, no housing assistance.  You can’t even get a driver’s license.  Just a shit job and a one way pass back to the slammer if you fuck it up.  But hey, it cuts back on tax payer dollars.”  
  
“That sounds like a really crappy deal to me,” Peter said, shaking his head.  “I mean, you’ve served your sentence, done your time.”  
  
“It’s supposed to help ease you back into society or whatever.  And I guess it does.”  Neal gave him a half-hearted grin.  “I mean, let’s face it.  If I wasn’t in the Rewind program, you’d probably be chasing me again.  I have no degree, I have no previous employers, I have no recommendations.  All I have is a felony record and experience making brooms and sewing medical scrubs in prison for ninety-three cents an hour.  There’s a reason I haven’t been able to get a job that isn’t part of the program, and if I didn’t have what I’ve got, well, I wouldn’t have much choice but to go back to stealing stuff, would I?”  He shrugged.  “A guy’s got to eat.”  
  
Peter shook his head at the phrasing.  A guy’s got to eat?  Neal might be working, but he definitely wasn’t eating, not like a man his size should.  “But you’re so smart, Neal.  You have so much to offer.  I have a hard time believing that people can’t see that.”  
  
Neal laughed.  “Man, Peter, I don’t know what fantasy of me you’ve got built up in that head of yours, but it’s bullshit.  Yeah, okay, I’m not going to argue that I’m not smart.  Lots of people are smart.  You’re as smart as I am, maybe smarter.  You did catch me, after all.  Smart gets you nowhere unless you’ve done something with it.  All I ever did was bad stuff.  I blew off real jobs and degrees and all that crap to take a more exciting road like the stupid kid I was.  But now I’m all grown up and I’m paying for my mistakes.  If I’d delivered pizzas when I was twenty instead of stealing masterpieces, I might be able to get a decent job right now.  But I didn’t, and I can’t, and now there’s no going back.  It’s as simple as that.”  
  
At one time Peter would have given pretty much anything to hear Neal Caffrey come out and say he’d made the wrong decisions, but right now, looking at the man face to face?  It just made Peter feel sad.  The words were true, and it was mature of Neal to admit to it, but it still seemed wrong that someone like Neal was in a place like this, no matter what mistakes he’d made.  What was the use of learning from your past if all it got you was a life of poverty?  Neal had already lost half his life to prison and, now that he was out, here he was hardly living at all.  
  
“Hey, you guys decide what you want yet?”  
  
Peter tore his eyes away from Neal to look at the waitress, giving her a strained smile.  “Yeah, I think we’re ready.”  He lifted up his empty mug.  “Oh, and how about another round?”  He glanced over at Neal.  “And one for him, too.”  
  
*  *  *  
  
“I swear to God, it was a carrier pigeon!” Neal said, laughing a little too loudly.  
  
“No way,” Peter said as he fumbled with the lock, a big grin on his face.  “You’re bullshitting me.”  
  
“It waaaas,” Neal insisted, knowing there was a whiny edge to his voice but not giving a damn.  God, he felt good.  A little buzzed, but good.  He’d only had two beers, but it had been forever since he’d had alcohol and he was a lot lighter than he used to be, so they’d left him tipsy.  But even better than that was the warm, full feeling in his stomach.  It had been awhile since he’d felt this full.  Usually he tried to spread his food out to keep his energy up, eating part of a dollar menu burger then saving the rest for later in the day.  He’d eaten all of his burger and almost half his fries tonight which, for someone with as small a stomach as he now had, was a hell of a lot.  
  
“A freakin’ bird flew the combination to you?”  The door to the Burkes’ house opened Peter motioned for Neal to go inside.  
  
“Yup,” Neal said proudly, despite a nagging feeling that this wasn’t something he was supposed to be proud of.  “Crazy, huh?”  
  
“Totally crazy.”  Peter shut the door behind them.  “You want a soda?”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Neal said as he dumped himself on the couch, smiling pleasantly at the ceiling.  It was a nice ceiling.  This was a nice house.  He liked it lots.  Nice and warm and very pretty.  Much nicer than his stupid room where it was always chilly and smelled bad.  He wished he had a house like this.  
  
“Here you go,” Peter said as he came back into the living room, tossing a Coke can in Neal’s direction.  
  
Somehow Neal actually managed to catch it, despite the fact that his brain seemed to be moving a second slower than the rest of the world.  He popped it open, taking a long drink.  “Ah,” he said happily, closing his eyes to savor the sugary taste.  “I forget how much I like high fructose corn syrup.  A beautiful invention, high fructose corn syrup.  The main ingredient in everything tasty.  Screw health foods.  I like high fructose corn syrup.”  
  
“Me too,” Peter agreed, flopping down on the couch next to him.  He popped his can open, taking a sip.  “Very tasty that high fructose corn syrup.”  
  
“Mmm,” Neal agreed, sort of snuggling against Peter.  “I’m glad you needed a maid.  It’s been lots of fun and stuff.”  
  
“Yeah,” Peter said.  “I didn’t know that I missed you, but you know what, I did miss you.”  He laughed.  “Funny, isn’t it?  Fate is such a nice guy.”  
  
Neal giggled.  “What?”  
  
“Well, it’s *got* to be fate, right?” Peter said, the words slurring just a bit.  “I mean, all of New York and you end up at my house?  It’s fate, buddy.”  
  
“I don’t believe in fate,” Neal said in a helpful voice.  He was feeling very helpful tonight.  
  
“That’s stupid,” Peter said, shaking his head.  He moved his arm so that it was wrapped loosely around Neal’s shoulders.  It felt nice.  “Fate introduced me and El.  I swear, it was totally fate.  Meant to be, you know?  This was totally fate, too.”  
  
Neal giggled again.  “How many beers did you have, Peter?”  
  
The man made a face.  “Enough for us to take a cab.  Man, I’m gonna have to get the Taurus in the morning.  It’s a company car, and Reese will get pissed if it gets busted into.  His nose wrinkles up all funny when he gets pissed and it’s really hard not to laugh at it, but if you laugh when he’s pissed then he gets *more* pissed and it wrinkles up worse and it's even funnier… It’s a vicious cycle,” Peter said mournfully.  “You can’t *escape* it.  So I better go get the car in the morning.”  
  
“It’s a nice car,” Neal said, once again using his helpful voice.  “I like cars that talk to you.  Very friendly.”  
  
Peter smiled down at him.  “You know, you’re really pretty.”  
  
Neal pouted.  “I wish people would stop calling me that.  I never wanted to be pretty.  It only gets you in trouble.”  
  
“But you are,” Peter insisted.  “It’s a good thing.”  
  
“Not in prison,” Neal said darkly, not feeling so helpful anymore.  
  
“Hm, maybe not.  But you’re not in prison anymore, so it’s good now, right?”  
  
Neal began to chew on his lip, Peter’s arm around his shoulders suddenly feeling a lot less comfortable than before.  “How come you care?”  
  
Peter shrugged, and the arm around Neal’s shoulders tightened.  It definitely didn’t feel so nice anymore.  “You’re a really amazing person.  You shouldn’t be living like this.  You don’t gotta live like this.  I could help you out, you know.”  
  
Neal’s heart sped up and he suddenly felt way, way too hot.  “I dunno about that,” he muttered, trying to stand up, but Peter’s arm around his neck stopped him, pulling him back against the other man.  
  
“I could,” Peter said, still smiling brightly.  It made Neal uncomfortable.  “I was thinking, remember what you wanted to do four years ago, after you escaped?”  
  
Neal shook his head, mind too fuzzy to be sure of what Peter was talking about.  
  
“You said you wanted to help me,” Peter said, “and I would help you.  They wouldn’t let me do it then ‘cause they said you’d run off for sure, but I bet now it would be different.  I bet we could come up with something that would be good for both of us.”  
  
Neal wrapped his arms around himself, sinking down into the sofa cushions as much as he could.  “I-I don’t think so,” he said in a shaky voice.  “I don’t do that, boss.”  
  
Peter shifted so that he was sort of facing Neal.  Neal lowered his eyes but the agent reached out and tugged his chin up, looking down at the younger man seriously.  
  
“I don’t like to see you like this, Neal,” he said softly.  “You’re working so hard, you should be rewarded for that.  Instead you’re…”  He ducked his head, bringing a hand to his eyes for a moment before continuing.  “Instead you’re practically starving.  You deserve better.  You’re special, Neal, and so beautiful, too.  We’ll work something out and you’ll never have to go hungry again.  Please, just think about it?”  
  
Neal turned his face away, tears welling up in his eyes.  He really wished his head was clearer, that the alcohol wasn’t making everything so slow and confused.  The words… they sounded so nice.  He was so tired of being hungry and exhausted.  Wouldn’t it be easy to just do what Peter wanted?  So what if it made him a whore?  Who even cared?  He didn’t have any pride left anyway, not really.  This last hold out was just desperation, him trying to pretend that he was still somebody important.  
  
Neal trusted Peter, liked Peter.  He always had.  Peter wasn’t dangerous like the guys in prison who wanted to use him or Officer Miller who waited for him outside the testing center so he could Look at him.  Peter wouldn’t hurt him, he was sure of that.  Peter wanted to help him.  
  
Peter wanted to help him.  All he had to do was help Peter in return.  
  
Before Neal’s blurry mind even had time to fully process what he was doing, his lips were pressed against Peter’s, tongue searching between the other man’s lips.  
  
The kiss was gentle but deep.   Nice, even, but after a moment Peter pulled away slowly, staring down at Neal with wide eyes.  “What are you doing?”  
  
Neal frowned at the words, not understanding. “Isn’t… Isn’t that what you want from me?”  He licked his lips nervously.  “You said you wanted me to help you.”  
  
Peter stiffened, and Neal’s stomach churned at the look on his face.  
  
“Yes,” he said in a shaky voice. “I did.  I do want to help you.  But that wasn’t what I was talking about, Neal.   I can’t pretend that I don’t want you, that I haven’t always sort of wanted you, but I didn’t mean *that.*  I meant that you could come help me at the Bureau, like you wanted to when we were after the Dutchman.”  Peter paused, a troubled look coming over his face.  “Neal… Do you do that?”  His voice sounded pained.  “Do you… help… men for money?”  
  
Oh, God.  Oh, God, no.  Humiliation washed over Neal as the full weight of Peter’s words fell on his muddled brain.  
  
“No,” he said, shoving at Peter’s chest with his hands.  “No, I don’t.”  He stumbled to his feet, a tear running down his cheek.  “I swear, I don’t.  I never have.  I don’t.”  He had to get out of there.  He had to.  The look on Peter’s face… Neal hadn’t felt so ashamed since his first day in prison when his cellmate had forced him to eat his food off the ground.  
  
“Neal, wait!”  
  
Neal didn’t pause, just stumbled his way out the door and into the night and, for once, HUNGER wasn’t the word on his mind.  Tonight it had been usurped by WHORE.  
 ****


	4. Of Parolees and Passports

“And then he ran off. Or stumbled off. He was kind of drunk. *I’m* kind of drunk.” Peter dropped his head down onto the kitchen table with a bang then, finding the sound rather satisfying, picked it up and dropped it down again. “Oh, God, El what am I going to do?”

His wife reached out, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t think there’s anything you *can* do tonight, hon,” she said, sounding sad. “God, I can’t believe what a bad place he’s in. It’s terrible.”

“He’s *starving*, El,” Peter said miserably. “And, oh my God, can I put my foot in my mouth or what?” He raised his head up, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “I can’t believe he thought that I wanted…” He looked over at her, desperate. “Do I seem like that kind of man, El? Do I?” He blinked back the tears rising in his eyes.

El reached out, pulling him into a hug. “No, sweetie, of course not. You were drunk, he was drunk. You’re attracted to him and he sensed that. You didn’t say or do anything inappropriate, okay? It was a misunderstanding, and that’s no one’s fault. Neal’s a very handsome young man, and I’m sure he’s had more than a few people offer favors for being with them sexually, especially having been in prison for so long and all.”

“I wonder if he did it?” Peter said, hating the images that rose in his mind.

“He said he didn’t,” El replied with a shrug. “All you can go off is that. If it’s not the truth, maybe he’ll feel safe enough to tell you in the future. But for now, you need to stop beating yourself up. It won’t help Neal one iota, and it will just make you feel bad. There’s nothing we can do for him tonight.”

“I know,” Peter said tiredly. “I can’t believe he ran off like that.”

“I imagine he was pretty embarrassed. He probably thinks you were disgusted by what happened.”

“The only thing that disgusts me is the thought that somewhere along the line someone might have taken advantage of him,” Peter said darkly.

“I know, hon. Me too,” El agreed. “But he doesn’t know that. Unfortunately, all we can do now is get some sleep and try to fix this is the morning.” She leaned forward, pausing a few inches from Peter’s lips, a mischievous look coming over her face. “So, it’s time to spill. Is Neal Caffrey a good kisser?”

Peter let out a laugh, a small smile growing on his face despite his somber mood. “Oh yes, my love. Neal Caffrey is a very good kisser, indeed.”

* * *

Neal dropped down into the chair across from his parole officer. It was ten in the morning and he felt like shit. As if the emotional trauma of basically telling Peter that he was a whore wasn’t enough, he was still slightly hungover. He had ten hours worth of trash to pick up today, and he was not looking forward to it. Fucking community service.

“Mr. Caffrey,” his PO said in his usual no-nonsense tone. Good to see you.” As if he didn’t see him every day. Why was he stringing this out? Usually Neal put his John Hancock down and walked out of there, no chit chat necessary.

“Good to see you too,” Neal said, feeling a little suspicious. Did this have something to do with last night? Had Peter reported that he was prostituting himself? Neal’s stomach twisted at the thought. He could go back to jail for that.

“I got an interestin’ phone call this morning,” his PO said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers.

Neal’s heart began to pump faster, breath coming a little too quick. “Oh yeah?” he questioned, trying his best to seem like he wasn’t worried.

The cop nodded. “Yeah. Some federal agent. He said to tell ya that the interview is at 3:00 tomorrow. Said if ya couldn’t get off work or whatever to call him and reschedule.” He raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is a con like you doing interviewing for the FBI?”

A good question if there ever was one, but not something that Neal felt like trying to discuss with a cop who didn’t know the difference between Freddie Mercury and Freddie Mac. “Just a mail room thing,” he murmured, mind going a million miles an hour as he tried to figure out what the hell was happening. Peter had set up an interview for him? Why? Neal remembered vaguely Peter saying something about helping him out with cases before the kissing fiasco, but surely he didn’t want his help anymore? And what help could he be, anyway? Maybe Neal used to be the best of the best, but that was almost a decade ago. The world had moved on without him. There were probably bigger and better guys out there now, and Neal doubted he’d be much help in catching them.

It wasn’t an opportunity that he could even begin to consider passing up, however, even if the idea of having to look Peter in the eyes made his face burn with embarrassment. The FBI would have to pay him minimum wage. That was almost three and a half dollars more an hour than he was making now, a major pay raise. At that rate, if Neal managed his money very carefully and found a night job as well, he might never have to go without food again. His stomach growled at the thought.

Neal leaned forward. “Did he happen to give you an address?”

* * *

“I don’t know about this, Peter,” Hughes said doubtfully, shaking his head. “He was a con. I don’t know that the FBI is the place for men like Caffrey.”

“You said that you wanted to start handing the reins over to me before the retirement years pass you by completely,” Peter reminded his boss. “So put some faith in me. In a couple of years I’ll be running this place, and I believe that Neal Caffrey would be a fantastic asset to the Bureau.”

Hughes chuckled. “You always did have a fascination with Caffrey. But I vetoed this idea four years ago for a reason, Peter. Caffrey is a wild card. You never know what he might do, and in the Bureau you have to be reliable.”

“Back then he’d just escaped,” Peter said, perching on the edge of Hughes’ desk. “He was up to serve four more years and desperate for any way out, definitely a flight risk. So, yeah, I can understand why you might have felt he had some reliability issues. But he’s served his time, and now he’s just trying to make it in the world. There’s no alternative motive this time.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” Hughes said, taking a sip of coffee. “Caffrey always has a reason for the things he does.”

Peter nodded. “You’re right, but Neal’s only motive right now is to get food on the table, Reese. He’s working two jobs for below minimum wage and looking for a third. Look at him when he comes in. The guy looks like shit, and it’s no con job. You can’t fake being so malnourished that a blind man could see your ribs from twenty feet away.”

Hughes’ intercom chose that moment to buzz. “Agent, there’s a Neal Caffrey down here to see Agent Peter Burke. Should I send him up?”

“Speak of the devil,” Hughes murmured. “Yeah, thanks Olivia. Send him on up.”

“Just give him a chance, okay?” Peter said, almost pleadingly. “As a favor to an old friend.”

Hughes shot him a look. “Okay, okay. I’ll give him a chance.” He frowned and began digging through the stacks of files distributed haphazardly across his desk. “Hm, I have an idea… Where’s that case…?” He smiled as he pulled a large manila envelope from his desk drawer, dropping it onto the desk. “How about this? We’ll give him a practical test.”

Peter frowned. “What is that?”

“The Emler case,” Hughes said. “Pretty cut and dry. Forgery, identity theft. The forger was good, though, very good. Almost perfect replicas.”

“I remember it,” Peter said, nodding. “They were good.”

Hughes nodded. “We’ll see if he can tell which of the passports is the real one and which are the copies.”

“He’s here,” Peter said as he looked up and saw Neal’s overly thin form making its way through the bullpen. He was wearing the same pink shirt as last night, though he had managed to scrounge up some cheap polyester pants, and this time he was also wearing a tie with a rather ugly purple print on it.

“Wow,” Hughes said, looking surprised. “You’re right, he is thin. And what happened to his hair?”

“I guess he likes it short,” Peter said with a shrug, not feeling comfortable sharing details Neal had entrusted him with.

“It’s not his best look.”

Peter shrugged again. “Then I guess it’s good I’m not hiring him for his looks.”

Hughes’ lip twitched in amusement. “You sure about that?”

“Excuse me?” Peter said, raising an eyebrow.

The man just chuckled, shaking his head.

The door to Hughes’ office opened, revealing Diana closely followed by a wary looking Neal who was watching the female agent like maybe she was a lion waiting to attack. The guy had good instincts.

“This one says he’s for you,” Diana said, glancing doubtfully at the man. “Says he has an interview?”

“Yeah, thanks Agent Barrigan,” Peter said, smiling at her for a moment before turning his attention on Neal. “Glad you got my message, Caffrey.”

“You didn’t leave it someplace where I could really miss it,” the man said in a soft but friendly voice. Neal had a shaky smile on his face, but Peter noticed the man was making a point not to look him directly in the eye, keeping his gaze on Hughes instead.

“Good point,” Peter said, gesturing for him to sit in one of the chairs in front of Hughes’ desk. “Neal, this is Reese Hughes, director of the White Collar division. Reese, Neal Caffrey.”

“Hello,” Neal said, voice still quiet.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Caffrey,” Reese said, smiling gamely at the younger man, who immediately dropped his eyes. Hughes frowned slightly, clearing his throat. “Right. So, I figure we might as well get down to business. Agent Burke says you’re out on parole, is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Neal said, eyes locked on the glass paperweight Hughes had sitting on his desk. “I’ve served four months of my eighteen month parole.”

“And you’re working at this time?”

Neal nodded, slowly lifting his gaze until he was looking Hughes in the eye. That was something, at least. “Yes, sir. I work for a maid service and a landscaping company.”

“You know that if you’re hired here, you would probably have to give at least one of those up. It’s a nine to five job, and we can’t make exceptions.”

“That’s fine, sir,” Neal said. “It’s no problem.”

Hughes gave a sharp nod. “Okay, well, this is usually the time that we’d usually go over your qualifications, but, if I remember correctly, you dropped out of high school, correct?”

“Yes, sir. I took the GED two days ago, though. Hopefully I passed.” He smiled, though he didn’t look particularly happy. “It’s not so much that it’s hard, it’s that just that it seems like forever since I read about the Civil War or figured out the area of a cube. Not stuff you use very much in real life.”

“True, true,” Hughes said, nodding. “I must admit, our school systems aren’t known for their practical knowledge. I majored in criminology and I can’t say that I’ve ever used the information I learned in my class on the psychology of ancient dictators.”

“It is better to create than to learn. To create is the essence of life,” Neal said, an amused look coming over his face. Peter had a feeling he was missing the joke.

“The die is cast,” Hughes replied, looking amused himself. Yup, definitely an inside joke.

Neal smiled at the older man. “He came, he saw, he conquered.”

Hughes chuckled, so at least he was enjoying their little banter. It kind of made Peter want to pout about being left out, but whatever. “Indeed. And since, as dear Caesar would say, experience is the teacher of all things…” Hughes picked up the envelope containing the Emler file, handing it over to Neal. “I figured we’d replace the experience overview with a little practical test. We found these passports in a safety deposit box last week. They were left there by a forger named Johnson Emler. Have you heard of him?”

Neal shook his head. “No, but I’ve been out of the game for awhile and forgers tend to come and go.”

Hughes nodded. “Well, I figured that this would be a good test of your skills. Can you tell me which passports are real?”

Peter watched a little nervously as Neal opened the envelope and began to sift through the passports almost agonizingly slowly. Peter started tapping his fingers on the desk, stopping when Hughes shot him a look. God, why was he so nervous? It wasn’t his job on the line here or anything. Oh, great, now his palms were sweating. Peter wiped them on his trousers as surreptitiously as possible. From the way he was acting, you would have thought this was his son or something.

Neal studied the passports for what seemed like forever, a little wrinkle appearing on his forehead as his eyes danced across them, not unlike they had with the menu. Peter wondered idly what Neal saw when he looked at things. Surely not the same thing everyone else saw. His eye for detail was too good. The man could make perfect forgeries without even measuring for the placement and ratio of the images. Peter couldn’t even draw a believable looking Charlie Brown.

Finally, Neal slipped the last passport back into the envelope and closed it carefully, setting it gently on Hughes’ desk.

“Well?” Peter prompted when the younger man didn’t say anything.

“No,” Neal replied.

Peter’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“No, I can’t tell you which one is real.”

“What?” Peter couldn’t hide his shock. The Emler case had been fairly cut and dry. The forgeries *were* very good, but they weren’t perfect. The pink watermarks were a shade too dark near the bottom. It had taken them awhile, but they’d definitely been proven fakes. Peter couldn’t believe Neal hadn’t spotted it.

“I can’t tell you which one is real because they’re all fake,” Neal elaborated, giving a little shrug. “I don’t know who Johnson Emler is, but he does shoddy work. Those forgeries were made from a forgery.”

He leaned forward, opening the envelope again and pulling out the passports one by one, spreading them along the desk. After a moment he picked one up, seemingly at random, and flipped it open, holding it out so Hughes and Peter could see.

“Look at the watermark. See how the edge of the circle is slightly thicker at the bottom? Someone applied too much pressure there. Otherwise this is fairly good work. I can see how this Emler fellow might think he was working with the real thing, though even an amateur really ought to know that the only way to be one hundred percent sure you’re working off a real sample is to go to the clerk’s office and wait in line. The ones he made have the pressure problem *and* a color problem. Cheap printer, most likely. The pink ink… It’s one, maybe two shades darker on the color scale than it should be. I’d say something in a web color F6 range instead of an F4 range. ”

Hughes reached out and plucked the passport from Neal’s hands, looking down at it in disbelief. “You’re sure this is a fake?”

“Yeah. I mean, besides the pressure problem, the thing’s signed, too. The US government doesn’t usually sign their passports with random initials, not to my knowledge anyway.” Neal’s voice held a mixture of amusement and superiority, and suddenly he sounded much more like the Neal that Peter remembered.

Peter hid a smile, leaning over to get a better look. He didn’t see any signature. “Where is it signed?”

“Look at the eagle’s claws. They form an ‘M’ and an ‘I.’ On a real passport you can’t see the claws quite that clearly.”

“I can’t believe we didn’t catch that,” Hughes said, shaking his head.

“Well, you were working off the assumption that one of them was real. Unfortunately this Emler guy is an idiot, so he was working off a copy himself.” Neal ran a hand nervously across his buzzed scalp, suddenly looking suspicious. “Was that a test? If so, it wasn’t very hard.”

Peter had to hold in his laughter at the look on Hughes’ face. “No,” he said, trying not to look too amused. “It wasn’t a test, Neal. We really didn’t know they were all fake. But thank you for helping us figure that out.”

“No problem,” Neal murmured, his voice once again soft with an edge of nervousness. He still refused to look Peter in the eye, choosing instead to focus his attention on picking at the leg of his pants. “Are we still interviewing?” He hesitated. “Not that I’m in a rush, but I do have to work tonight. My social worker hooked me up with a nighttime construction job. Just a temp thing, two weeks, but it pays eight bucks an hour.”

“That’s good, Neal,” Peter said, trying not to feel bad about how happy Neal looked over the idea of being paid seventy-five cents over minimum wage. He glanced over at Hughes, who was still looking peeved as he stared at the passport. “I think we’re done here, right, Reese?”

The man looked up like Peter had startled him. He was probably very busy cussing out the agents who wrapped up this case in his head. If there was one thing Hughes didn’t like, it was looking stupid. “Hm? Uh, yes, we’re done, Caffrey. Thank you for coming. Peter will give you a ring in a couple days to let you know our decision.”

Neal nodded his head politely as he stood. “I don’t have a phone, but he can call my parole officer. I see him every day.” His eyes darted over to Peter for a moment, then went back to the ground. “Thank you again.”

Peter watched in silence as the man made his way out of the office, waiting until the glass door swing shut behind him to speak.

“Well?” he said, raising an eyebrow at Hughes.

Hughes made a face at him. “Oh, shut up, Burke.”

Peter chuckled. “I take it he’s hired then?”

“Yeah,” Hughes said, slamming the passport down on the desk. “He’s hired. Now get me the goddamn agents that were on this case. I have a few choice words for them.”


	5. Of Contracts and Coitus

Six hours. That was how much combined sleep Neal Caffrey had gotten in the past two days. Up at five-thirty on Tuesday to get to Mrs. Smiles’ by six. He had caught a nap on a park bench between trimming hedges and his new found construction work, almost two hours, then he’d been back at work, this time in a hardhat. It had run late and Neal didn’t get off until four, which meant he had no real time for sleep before being elbows deep in floor cleaner. He’d sneaked in another nap between mowing some medians and going back to the construction site. Thankfully they’d gotten off on time today, so he would have time to get almost four hours of sleep before it was back to work again.

It was worth it, though. Neal was making ninety-eight bucks a day now instead of his usual fifty. And, okay, working sixteen hour days was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done, but he’d managed to pay his overdue rent and still had money left to order a full meal at a diner. Right now, though, he was ready to collapse from exhaustion.

Neal began to strip off his dirty work clothes, dropping them in a heap by the bathroom door, then went to the small sink and started splashing water on himself. He never got particularly clean this way, but it was enough to take away the nasty sweat smell, at least. After washing himself as best he could, Neal pulled on a pair of old boxers and headed back into the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed.

Just as he was about to drift off, a loud knocking on the door jerked him awake. He scrambled up into a sitting position, scowling. Who the hell was at his door? No one ever came to see him. He didn’t *have* anyone to come see him. Dammit, if this was another john with the wrong room he was going to beat the crap out of the bitchy whore who lived a few doors down. It wasn’t his fault that the broken plastic ‘7’ on his door made it look like he was room number ’11’ instead of room number ’17.’ The door to the right was sixteen and to the left was eighteen. You’d think even middle aged perverts would be smart enough to know that eleven wasn’t the number in between.

Neal climbed out of bed with a sigh, moving to the door and pulling it open a few inches, not bothering to undo the chain. “You have the wrong room. Get lost.”

“Actually, I don’t think I do…”

Neal started slightly at the low voice. “Peter?” he said in disbelief, peeking out the slit in the door. “Is that you?”

“I hope so,” the man joked, pretending to look around like he wasn’t sure. “Otherwise I have a problem.”

Great. Just fantastic. Not only had Neal made himself out to be a complete whore, now Peter was going to see the kind of shit hole he lived it. How much farther was he going to have to fall before he hit rock bottom? It seemed like every time he was sure he’d gone splat, a crack opened up and he started falling again.

“Can I come in?” Peter questioned after a moment, voice more serious than before.

Neal rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Yeah,” he muttered, “just a second.”

God, what the hell was Peter doing here? Was this about that horrible interview two days ago? He’d been such an idiot, running his mouth and pissing off Peter’s boss like that. He should have just said that the good fake was the real one and been done with it. Maybe they’d have even given him a job filing papers or something. But no, he had to be a big shot, turning up his nose at the work of real agents and acting like a know-it-all.

Neal shut the door softly so he could undo the safety chain, then opened it again, all the way this time.. “Come on in,” he said quietly, doing his best to avoid Peter’s eyes. He hadn’t forgotten about the fool he’d made of himself last weekend, and he was sure Peter hadn’t either.

“Thanks,” Peter said. He stepped into the room then immediately wrinkling his nose. “Ye gads, what’s that smell?”

“Which one?” Neal asked, a bit of dark humor in his voice. “Vomit, urine, sex, mold? It’s kind of hard to parse them out, but I’m pretty sure they’re all there somewhere. Gotta love a no-tell motel, eh? But it’s what you get in New York City for six hundred bucks a month. No shower, but the TV plays Skinemax.”

“Hm.” Peter’s voice was mild, but his face betrayed his disgust at the small, filthy room with a mirror on the ceiling and stains on the sheets. “We’ll have to find you a better place.”

“This is Manhattan, Peter,” Neal said in a voice like he was talking to a child. “There *isn’t* anything better for six hundred bucks a month.”

Peter brightened at that, turning his attention from the room back to Neal. “Well, that’s not going to be a problem anymore. I’m here to make you an offer.”

Neal frowned. “What?”

Peter set down his briefcase on the bed, popping it open. “I have the papers right here. Obviously since you don’t have training, you’re not going to be an agent, per se, but we set up something we’re calling a field assistant. Basically you’ll be doing the work of an agent, but under my personal supervision. The Bureau has good benefits, health and dental, and I think the salary is fair. You’ll be eligible for a raise after you’ve been with us for a year.”

Neal stared at Peter in disbelief, heart speeding up a little. “You mean… I got the job?”

Peter snorted. “Of course you got the job! What, you didn’t know?”

Neal shook his head silently, eyes wide.

“For God’s sake, Neal, you saved us from looking like total fools when the Emler case goes to trial. Of course Hughes hired you.” His brow furrowed. “Why would you think he wouldn’t?”

“I-I figured I pissed him off,” Neal said in a soft voice, mind racing to try and calculate what, exactly, this would mean for him.

“No, the dummies who missed something as obvious as initials in the fucking eagle’s claw pissed him off,” Peter said. “You’ll have to quit your other jobs, though, not that it will be a big loss. This is full time.”

Full time. That meant, what, forty hours a week? With minimum wage at $7.25 an hour that was… Neal did the math quickly in his head. $290 a week. Shit, that was over a thousand bucks a month. $1,160 to be exact. That was only forty bucks less than what he’d been making for sixty hours a week. If he found a permanent night job to make it sixty, that would be about six hundred dollars. So even after taxes he could pay his rent and still have… Oh God, he’d still have maybe thirty dollars a *day*. Compared to his usual twelve, that was a fortune. He could ride the bus *and* buy necessities *and* eat at least one full meal a day, then still have a dollar or two left over to put in his emergency fund jar. And maybe, after he saved for awhile, he could move into a place with a shower!

Neal knew he should probably feel embarrassed at how exhilarated the idea of being able to afford new shoelaces and ramen noodle cups made him, but at this point he didn’t really care. Maybe, once upon a time, he had dreamed about five hundred dollar bottles of wine, but now he knew what it felt like to go hungry, and once you've gone hungry, you never go back.

“So, what do you think?” Peter questioned, holding out a handful of papers. “Are you in?”

Neal reached out, taking the papers and flipping through them, scanning the documents quickly. “Do I have to get the health insurance?” he asked as he came to the benefits section.

Peter looked at him oddly. “Why wouldn’t you want health insurance? What if something happened?”

“I’d deal,” Neal said with a shrug, flipping to the next page. “I don’t want to waste the money.”

“It’s not a waste of money, Neal,” Peter said, frowning deeply. “You will get sick, even if it’s just a cold, and doctors charge a fortune. It’s a good investment.”

Neal glanced up at him. “Rent is a good investment,” he said in a flat voice. “Cereal and toilet paper and toothpaste are a good investment. I need to spend my money on that before I waste any on something I may never need.”

Peter looked puzzled. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to afford cereal and toilet paper on forty thousand dollars a year, Neal.”

Neal froze in the midst of reading a clause on fieldwork liability, his whole body going stiff. “What?” he said slowly, not believing what he thought he had just heard.

“I said I think you can manage to afford the necessities and still get healthcare on forty a year. I know it’s not a huge amount, but I think it’s fair and a single guy should be able to live comfortably on it.”

“Forty… thousand?” The words felt thick on Neal’s tongue. “You’re going to pay me forty thousand a year? That’s, like, twenty bucks an hour.”

“That’s the starting salary for Bureau employees,” Peter said with a shrug. “Agents start at sixty.”

“But… I don’t even have a GED,” Neal said in a small voice, not quite able to comprehend exactly what Peter was saying.

“Yeah, but you do have experience, buddy.” Peter chuckled. “Maybe not the kind that would help you at Google or Charles Schwab or whatever, but it’s right for us. You’ve served your time, and you’re willing to use your powers for good. We can use a guy like that.”

Neal’s breath caught and he dropped a hand down to brush across his always empty stomach. What would it be like? He could live in a decent place, with a shower, or maybe even a bath tub. Baths were so nice. He could wait until seven to wake up, hours after sunrise, and make himself breakfast before work. Then he could go in and, at noon, eat a sandwich. After work he could cook something up or order out or go to a cafe. Any time he was hungry, he could eat. The light-headedness, the deep ache in his belly, the constant growling, the never-ending chant of ‘hungry, hungry, hungry, hungry’… It would all be gone. Food would no longer be something to dream about, it would be something real, something he could have whenever he needed it. Oh, God. The anticipation made him shiver.

Neal ducked his head so that Peter couldn’t see the tear running down his cheek. Hungry, he was so hungry. Always, always hungry. With this job, other things would become important. He could think about something other than HUNGER. He would be able to focus again, to create and problem solve again without the hunger to distract him.

“Why are you doing this for me?” Neal asked quietly. “You don’t owe me anything, Agent Burke. How come you’re going out of your way for me?”

Peter shook his head, a sad look on his face. “You really don’t get it, do you? I’m not jumping through hoops for you, Neal. I’m taking advantage of a resource. You’re smart and talented and you have an eye that can see things the rest of us can’t, a real understanding of details, subtleties that guys like me miss. That’s the kind of thing that is invaluable to the Bureau.” He paused. “And all that aside, I like you. Always have.” He blushed slightly. “I, uh, saved all the cards you sent me.”

Neal laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, though the sentiment made him feel strangely warm inside. “Seriously?”

Peter gave a little shrug, looking slightly embarrassed. “Look, Neal, I am so sorry about what happened Saturday night. I’d had too much to drink and seeing you again dredged up a lot of old feelings. It just seemed so perfect, like it was meant to be, you showing up on my doorstep, your time served, looking to be an honest man. Like fate. I didn’t mean to act on it, knew that you wouldn’t *want* me to act on it, but I guess I was giving off signals anyway. El always says that I’m almost as terrible at being subtle as I am at flirting.” He flashed Neal a grin, cheeks a little pink. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I hope we can start over. I don’t know if we can pretend it never happened, but I think we can work around it and become damn good partners, and hopefully good friends, too.”

“I don’t get it,” Neal said, brows furrowing. “You… You’re attracted to me?”

“You’re a pretty attractive guy, Caffrey,” Peter said with a shrug. “And I’m an honest man. I don’t lie to myself. It would be hard *not* to find someone like you attractive. You’ve got the smarts, the looks, the whole package, really. But I’m also a grown up, and I can work around my feelings.”

Attractive. Peter really found him attractive? Neal didn’t feel very attractive with his shaved head and his dirty clothes and his skeletally thin body.

“What about El?” Neal asked quietly, a sick feeling rising in his chest as he imagined being the reason a couple as perfectly matched as Peter and El broke up. “Does she know about this, that you…?”

Peter laughed aloud at that and, from the somewhat wicked look on his face, Neal was pretty sure there was an inside joke to this that he wasn’t in on. “Oh, yeah. We may look like old fogies, but we’re a modern couple. It also doesn’t hurt that she thinks you look like a young Frank Sinatra. We’re not swingers or anything, but we’re not big believers in the idea that you can only love one person.”

Wow. That was not what Neal had expected from Special Agent Peter Burke. Hell, that kind of went beyond ‘modern couple’ straight to ‘hippie-tastic’ in Neal’s opinion, not that it was any of his business.

“Are you implying that you *love* me?” Neal asked in disbelief.

Peter shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “I dunno. I just know that you fascinate me, and that the last person who fascinated me as much as you do ended up walking down the aisle with me. But, like I said, I understand that it’s not the kind of thing you’re interested in, and it won’t affect our work, or our friendship.”

“And what if it was the kind of thing I was interested in?” Neal didn’t know where the words came from, but he didn’t have an alcohol inhibited brain to blame them on this time. Surprisingly, though, he felt no real urge to take them back, despite the shooting nervousness that came with them.

Peter’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I didn’t think you liked men that way,” he said slowly, his face carefully schooled into an emotionless mask.

“I’m an artist. Don’t we all like men that way?” Neal joked though, in truth, he had never considered himself anything but straight. But, God, it had been a long time since he’d been with anyone at all. He didn’t count the few times he’d been abused in prison. Sex was supposed to be about pleasure, and it was supposed to be willing. If it didn’t fit those criteria, Neal didn’t consider it sex. His last time had been, dear God, eight years and seven months ago, a single night of lovemaking with a slightly drunken Kate who’d disappeared the next morning, as she had a tendency to do. Neal wondered idly what had happened to her. He hoped she had enjoyed her half of the stash that he’d finally given in and let Mozzie know about a few months after starting his second term in prison. He'd figured that there was no use in keeping it a secret, not when he had another four years to serve. At the time, four years had seemed like eternity. Now Neal wished he had held onto the last of his treasures, if only because he could have pawned a few for meal tickets now and then.

Peter took a hesitant step toward him, eyes making their way slowly down his body, and Neal was suddenly intimately aware of the fact that he was naked except for a pair of loose boxers. It immediately made his face redden as he imagined what Peter must be thinking about his obvious ribs and the indentions at his hips. Neal crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to hide himself. He wasn’t exactly muscular and attractive anymore.

“To be honest, *I* never thought I liked men that way,” Peter said softly, “until I met you.” His fingers played nervously with the end of his tie as he took another step forward, putting himself firmly in Neal’s personal space.

Neal swallowed down a sudden rush of panic. In prison, men getting in your space this way was very definitely a Bad Thing, and it was hard to ignore instincts born of eight years of looking over his shoulder. But this was Peter and, whatever this was, Neal knew that Peter wouldn’t hurt him. Peter was a good man.

Neal dropped the papers he’d been holding onto the floor and reached forward slowly, wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck, rising up on his toes just a little until his lips met Peter’s. They stayed like that for a long moment, then Peter reached out and took Neal’s face in his hands, pulling the smaller man into a deeper kiss.

Neal moaned slightly as Peter’s tongue slipped into his mouth, thick and wet. They kissed deeply, Peter’s fingers digging lightly into Neal’s face, before finally breaking apart. Neal glanced pointedly over to the bed. “You want to?” he whispered, heart pounding in his chest, half expecting Peter to look at him in disgust. He felt pretty disgusting these days.

“Hell, yes,” Peter replied in a voice that was almost a growl, a smile spreading across his face. Apparently Peter didn’t agree with his assessment.

* * *

God, he was thin. That was all Peter could think as he climbed on to the bed, eyes tracing the naked form sprawled out on the mattress before him. Neal had always been long and lanky, but this was a whole new level of skinny. Peter could count the man’s ribs, and his hip bones stood out in sharp relief. His shoulders looked too narrow for his body, and his knees and elbows stuck out awkwardly. All in all, he looked like a skinny teenager on a major growth spurt whose body weight couldn’t keep up with his stretching limbs.

Somehow Neal still managed to be attractive, however, and not because Peter liked adolescent boys or anything creepy like that. It was like an aura around him, sucking in everyone who looked upon it. Some combination of eyes and attitude and lips and personality that Peter couldn’t quite explain. It was like trying to separate out the different layers of color on a painting—you couldn’t do it. You just knew that, on the finished piece, it worked. Or Peter couldn’t do it, anyway. Neal, on the other hand…

Peter knelt between Neal’s spread legs, playing lightly with the skin on one of his knees. The younger man looked anxious, like maybe he wasn’t so sure this was a good idea anymore, and Peter frowned, trying to figure out what he could do to put him at ease. After a moment of thinking, he bent forward slowly and began to kiss all along that bony chest, then down his stomach toward the thin line of hair leading downward. Neal’s cock was already half hard and Peter began to kiss it as well, lips brushing against the sensitive skin.

Neal gasped, hips arching slightly, and Peter smiled. He began to tongue the man, running it along the shaft of Neal’s quickly hardening cock. After a moment he buried his face in the little curls of hair, kissing, kissing.

Peter felt hands in his hair, not hard, just light fingers running across his scalp. He pulled back slightly. “I don’t suppose you have a condom?” he asked in a low voice.

“No,” Neal whispered. “I don’t—“ He cut off, frowning. “Actually, I do. They give them away along with soap and toothpaste in little bags at the shelter down the street.”

“Where is it?” Peter questioned, absurdly grateful that shelters these days were generous with their rubbers.

“Um, in the bathroom? Yeah, on the sink.”

Peter climbed off of Neal, giving him another cursory look, then walked into the bathroom. He couldn’t help but grimace at what he found. They *had* to find Neal a better place to live, ASAP. The sink and the toilet both looked disgusting, and Peter could now see why he had no shower—the head had been ripped out of the wall, leaving a hole in the concrete. He guessed they gave the room to him for a discount because of that.

There was a paper lunch sack sitting on the sink and Peter opened it up, finding a bar of soap, toothpaste, and, alas, two condoms inside. He took the soap on a whim—there wasn’t much else to use for lube in this place and there was no point in doing this if it was going to hurt Neal—and padded back into the bedroom.

“Find it?” Neal questioned, looking nervous again. He was chewing on his thumbnail, staring up at Peter with wide eyes. He looked really young.

“Yup,” Peter said, giving him what he hoped was a comforting smile as he climbed back on the bed, settling between Neal’s legs again. “Have you… been with a man before?”

Neal turned his head to the side, looking off at nothing for a moment before turning his gaze back on Peter. When he spoke his voice sounded normal, but Peter didn’t miss the tension in his body. “No.”

Somehow Peter didn’t think that was the truth, but he didn’t press it. He could guess the kind of experiences a young, attractive white man whose only street experience was cheating at poker might have had in prison. If Neal wanted to tell him about it, he would. Otherwise, it wasn’t any of Peter’s business.

“You know, when I said the other night that I would… you know…” Neal’s face reddened. “I’ve never done that before, and not because I never had offers. I had plenty of offers, but I didn’t take them. I didn’t want to belong to somebody else. I still don’t.”

“Do you think that’s what this is?” Peter questioned, hands gently stroking the inside of Neal’s thighs. The other man’s breath hitched a little. “Because it’s not.”

“I know,” he said, voice small. “I just want to make sure you know. That you believe me. I’m not a whore.”

“I do believe you,” Peter said quietly, not adding that if a man who looked like Neal *was* a whore, he’d likely be living a hell of a lot better than this.

“Okay,” Neal said, slim hands reaching up to cup Peter’s waist. “Kiss me.”

That sounded like a good idea to Peter. He lowered himself down on top of the other man and began to kiss him deeply. Neal moaned as their hardened dicks pressed against one another, and Peter thrust his hips slightly. Neal scooted his legs up, using one foot to stroke at Peter’s butt cheek.

“Go on,” Neal murmured as their lips pulled apart again, a wild sort of look in his big blue eyes. “Go on, fuck me.”

Peter made a noise of assent and sat up, using his teeth to rip open the condom’s packaging. He slipped it over his very erect cock then picked up the bar of soap, spitting on it. Not the most hygienic form of lube, but it would do. He rubbed it over himself until his dick was slick with it, then reached down to slip a finger between Neal’s buttocks, moving around until he found his hole. His finger was big, but it slid in easily enough and he watched as Neal began to chew on his lip, eyes sort of drfting to the ceiling as his breath came faster.

“You okay?” Peter asked quietly, ignoring the ache of his own dick as he reached out to stroke Neal’s gently.

“Mmhm,” Neal said, nodding rather quickly. “Fine.” His voice was breathy. “Fine.”

“Neal… are you sure you want—“

“Yes, Peter,” Neal said, giving the other man a slightly irritated look. “I’m sure.” His voice softened, a smile growing on his face. “I’m sure.”

Peter nodded and began to work his finger back inside him, smiling when he made the younger man’s hips arch up.

He pulled back a little then very carefully he slipped another finger in, using his other hand to hold Neal’s pale buttocks apart. He sort of scissored them inside, slowly stretching him out.

“Come on, Peter,” Neal said, using his elbows to prop himself up so he could look at the other man. His face was red and his breathing heavy. “Fuck me.”

“Well aren’t you bossy?” Peter said in faux annoyance, and Neal chuckled, letting his head drop back down. “Okay…” He moved around until his knees were up under Neal’s ass then grabbed Neal by the legs, lifting them up. He pulled Neal’s body forward a little so he could more easily settle the man’s long legs on his shoulders, putting him at a perfect angle to slip his cock inside the other man.

Neal made a whimpering sound as Peter pressed the head of his cock into his ass, rising up on his elbow again, head falling forward. Gosh, Peter wished he could see Neal’s lovely curls falling into his face right now, a fantasy he’d jerked off to more than once. But hair would grow back. It was enough to see those big blue eyes gazing up at him through thick lashes, pinks lips open as he panted lightly.

Having slipped in a good amount of the way, Peter began to thrust lightly, his hips moving in short bursts. He dropped his head and arched his back as the sensation of pressing hot tightness around his cock sent waves of pleasure rushing through him. Peter could feel the orgasm building up within him, each thrust taking him a tiny step closer to the edge. He began to make deeper, harder strokes that left him grunting and Neal whimpering every time he thrust in.

“Y’okay?” He panted, using the back of his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead as he stared down at the young man beneath him. Neal’s eyes were closed and his mouth was hanging open, body limp and malleable as Peter moved inside him.

“Yes,” he said, though it came out more like a moan. “I’m good…” His fingers dug down into the sheets, clenching at them like they were some sort of lifeline.

Peter paused to pull Neal up a little farther on his lap, the movement fully impaling him on Peter’s cock.

“You like that?” Peter asked in a gruff voice when Neal let out a moan. He began to pump his hips, hard, his quick breaths making his head feel light. “Tell me you like it.”

“I like it,” Neal moaned, reaching up to grab the pillow behind his head, digging his fingers into it. “I like it, Peter, I like it.”

“Say my name again, Neal,” Peter instructed, voice hoarse and low. He moved his hips faster. “Say it…”

“Peter,” Neal moaned, reaching out and snagging his wrist, gripping it tightly. “Peter…”

Peter shuddered, sweat pouring down his chest as he felt the pleasure coming to a peak. He stretched out his body, teeth gritted, as he continued to thrust deeply into Neal. Almost there, almost there, almost—

Peter let out a cry as he came, buried deep inside Neal. His thighs shook from the effort of thrusting and he collapsed down onto the bed, using his forearms to hold his weight up off of the smaller man. With Neal that size, Peter could probably crush him.

“Please,” Neal begged, eyes squeezed shut, an almost pained look on his face. “Please…”

In one swift move Peter wrapped his arms around Neal and rolled, flipping them on the bed so that Neal was on top. God, the other man really did weigh next to nothing. Neal’s head dropped down onto Peter’s chest as Peter worked his hand between them, wrapping his fingers around Neal’s shaft. He began to pump it in a slow, languid motion that made Neal slam a hand down on the sheets in frustration even as he let out a desperate sounding moan.

“Dammit, Peter,” he moaned as the agent continued to tease his hard cock. “Want… Oh… Oh God…” Neal’s shoulders began to shake, hips thrusting forward erratically into Peter’s hand. “Y-yes… Yes, Peter, yes!” With a final thrust Neal came, a shiver running through his thin body before he dropped bonelessly onto Peter.

Peter wrapped his arms around Neal’s small shoulders, burying his face in the other man’s neck as they lay there, both sweaty and panting.

“So beautiful,” Peter murmured after a few minutes of simmering in the afterglow. He traced his fingers up the other man’s neck, stroking softly at Neal’s scalp. “So, so beautiful.”

“Mmmm,” Neal said less than intelligibly as he snuggled in tightly against the bigger man.

Peter smiled, tipping his head up to give Neal a gentle kiss on the temple as he began to run fingers up and down the man’s much-to-obvious spine. It would be okay. They were in this together now. Neal was going to be okay. It was fate.

“Love you,” Neal murmured, making Peter smile again. Oh yeah. Definitely fate.

* * *

“Dammit, Neal, we could have lived off of that forever!” Mozzie said, slapping a hand down on the table in frustration. Neal just raised an eyebrow at the little man, amused.

“Sorry, Moz, but you know I don’t work for the Dark Side anymore. I had to tell him.”

Mozzie sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “An entire U-boat full of treasure, Neal. Talk about a once in a lifetime heist! We could be living the good life right now!”

Neal glanced around his expensive apartment, giving Mozzie a pointed look. “Maybe you need to let me in on your definition of the good life, Moz. I pay seven hundred bucks a month to live in a ten million dollar townhouse in the middle of Manhattan with a woman who used to play cards with Sy Devore. How, exactly, is this *not* the good life?” He opened the fridge, pulling out a tub of leftovers from the night before.

Mozzie grimaced as he watched Neal tug the top off. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to eat day old spinach.”

“So you want me to lie, then?” Neal asked, amused at the disgusted face Mozzie was making. He couldn’t blame the guy. Ten years ago he would have had the same reaction, but as he always said: Once you went hungry, you never went back. Neal found it almost physically painful to throw food, any food, away. Backyard parties where everybody brought a dish for flies to land on were like his worst nightmare. At least he’d finally managed to stop compulsively collecting pizza crusts when Peter was trying to have a game night with the boys.

There was a cursory knock on the door, and speak of the devil, there was the man himself. Neal grinned widely at Peter as he strode into the room, that good ole boy smile on his face as he leaned in and pecked Neal on the lips.

“Oh, goody, Haversham is here,” he said dryly as he pulled away, raising an eyebrow at Mozzie. “Not planning anything that would require me to read anyone their rights, I hope.”

“Nope,” Neal said as he sat down at the table, leftovers in hand. “Just complaining that I wouldn’t break the law with him last week.”

“Ah, yes, the U-boat fiasco.” Peter wagged a finger at Mozzie. “Those pieces were looted from their rightful owners by *Nazis*. Don’t you think their families and countrymen deserve to have them back?”

“Of course I do, Suit,” Mozzie said, waving the words away. “I just think that it wouldn’t hurt if we received a little finder’s fee, you know?”

Neal shoveled a fork full of spinach into his mouth to hide his amusement.

“Yeah, well, actually, I was here to talk to you about that, Neal,” Peter said, sitting down at the table and scooting the chair in close. “Well, sort of that, anyway.”

Neal frowned at his lover. “What’s up?”

Peter leaned forward like he was sharing a secret. “It seems that we caught the governor’s attention with this latest win. He gave Hughes a ring and, after hearing the amazing tale of Neal Caffrey, began to spout off a very interesting word.”

“If it was ‘Kennedy,’ then just let me say I told you so,” Mozzie said flatly.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Actually, it was more along the lines of ‘pardon.’”

Neal froze with his fork half way to his mouth. “What?”

“Well, you’ve been working for the Bureau for almost six months now,” Peter said in that overly casual way he had when he was trying to hide his excitement. “The governor seems to think that another eight months parole for a convict as ‘rewound’ as you,” he smirked as Neal snorted, “is, well, I think the word he used was ‘ridiculous.’” A bright smile spread across his face. “So…” Peter reached into his pocket, pulling out a key. “Put your foot up here, buddy. You, my love, are a free man.”

Neal’s mouth dropped open and he set his tub of food down on the table with a thunk. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Peter reached out and squeezing his shoulder. “No more annoying anklet for you and, if you really want to stand in line at the DMV, you are free to get your driver’s license back.” He chuckled. “Hell, you can even travel out of the city without getting permission first!” He wagged his eyebrows. “And best of all, you, me, and El can have sleepovers without your asshole parole officer making rude jokes about it. Not that we ever get much sleep…”

“Not that I’m not thrilled,” Mozzie said, nose wrinkling up in disgust, “but could we please leave the Suit sex out of the conversation?”

“Sorry,” Peter said, not sounding sorry at all. He smiled, holding up the key again. “So? Shall we take it off?”

Neal didn’t reply, too busy trying to get a handle what was happening. This was it? This was finally it? Eight years in prison, ten months on parole… Now he was really, truly going to be a free man again, 100%? God, the possibilities were overwhelming. He could do anything. He could rob federal banks or build houses in Africa or forge Michaelangelos or teach kids to finger paint in Peru.

Except… Neal didn’t really want to do any of those things. Okay, maybe teach kids to finger paint, but not in Peru. Here in New York City where his job and his friends and his lovers all were. His life of crime had been exciting while it had lasted, but in the end it had left him hungry and broken. Maybe Moz still got a rush from it, but Mozzie hadn’t spent eight years in an eight by ten cell and Mozzie hadn’t eaten out of trash cans because he couldn’t afford a candy bar. There were plenty of rushes to be had as one of the good guys, and if the only sacrifice he had to make was five hundred dollar wine and an island in his name, well, that wasn’t much of a sacrifice. Not to someone who’d sacrificed food to pay the rent.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Neal jerked at the sound of Peter’s voice, surprised to see the man kneeling next to him. He reached out, running a shaky hand through his lover’s hair. “Yeah,” he said quietly, a smile growing on his face. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Shall we take it off?” Peter questioned, gesturing toward the ankle in question, and Neal gave a sharp nod, lifting up the leg of his trousers. He watched, holding his breath, as Peter’s big fingers fumbled with the lock. A few seconds later the band snapped open, and Peter smiled widely up at Neal, tossing the tracker onto the table.

“Thank you,” Neal said in a low voice, leaning forward to kiss his lover. “For everything, I mean.”

“Don’t thank me,” Peter murmured, lips hovering just above Neal’s. “You’re the one who did it.”

Neal made a sound of pleasure as the bigger man pulled him into a deep kiss. Now *this* was a kind of hunger he could get used to.


End file.
